


rot in the heart of the garden

by Sulwen



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Glam Rock RPF
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sulwen/pseuds/Sulwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Adam Lambert is only a few years out of medical school and already co-running his own psychiatric practice.  But there is one patient engrossing enough to lure him away from his life of ease and comfort, one patient who can make him put everything he's ever worked for at risk: Tommy Joe Ratliff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rot in the heart of the garden

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: attempted suicide, mental illness, violence, abuse, homophobia
> 
> Written for the Lambliff Big Bang challenge.
> 
> Full notes can be found at [my Livejournal](http://edged-glass.livejournal.com/19240.html) (locked, please comment [here](http://edged-glass.livejournal.com/719.html) to be added)
> 
> Please check out the wonderful accompanying [fanmix](http://x-serenade.livejournal.com/46284.html) for this story!
> 
> Please note - this idea took on a life of its own, and there was no way I could have ever finished it properly in time to post for this challenge. Therefore, I plan to present it as a trilogy. You can think of this as part one of three, though I do believe it stands on its own as a complete story.

It's unseasonably cool for August, a fluke in the weather that feels too good to question, and they speed through the forest with the windows down, wind rushing through the car, the scent of summer rain riding its back. Adam shifts in his seat, the passenger-side seat belt pressing into his shoulder in all the wrong places. He can't remember the last time he was driven anywhere.

He glances over at the man in the driver's seat and speaks over the sound of the wind. “You're sure you'll be all right at the office without me?”

Jaime laughs, rich and deep and friendly. “I can handle your patients for a few days. Honestly, I'm more worried about _you_ – are you sure about this case? It seems awfully...odd. To say the least.”

Adam looks down at the small stack of papers in his lap, runs his fingers over the deep creases where they've been folded and folded again. There are secrets written there, maybe, in between the lines. His mind wanders.

“Adam...Adam...hello, Dr. Lambert? Still with us?” Jaime nudges Adam gently with his elbow, and Adam shakes himself and looks up.

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you knew how much further it was. I'm starting to think we missed a turn.”

“Oh...” Adam squints his eyes and peers out the window, looking for a mile marker. “No, you're good. Keep going.”

Jaime sighs and refocuses on the road. “I knew Riverstone was all about privacy. I didn't realize that it was in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah. The Martins are a very private family. I almost can't believe they called me at all,” Adam replies.

“Go over the case again. Maybe I can give you some last-minute advice before you're on your own,” Jaime says.

Adam doesn't really feel like it, would rather just sink back into his own thoughts, but Dr. James Yeats is a persistent man. Probably best to humor him. And anyway, he's probably right. Adam clears his throat and tries to remember everything.

“Patient Tommy Joe Ratliff, age twenty-six. Parents deceased seventeen years – car accident. Guardians Daniel and Susanna Martin. Daniel deceased eleven years. The Martins had one daughter by birth, Becky Martin, age twenty-three. Patient admitted to Riverstone Institute ten years ago after being declared a danger to himself. Regular contact with the family for most of that time, visits, letters, becoming less frequent over the past two years. Most recent contact was a letter two months ago, nothing since. Calls to the institute unproductive, visits postponed indefinitely by the institute staff. Decision made to ask for a second professional opinion before taking any further action.”

Jaime waits for Adam to finish, listening with a thoughtful look on his face. When Adam's done, he shakes his head, his brows knitting. “I don't know, Adam...this is _strange._ Sounds like it could be a tricky situation. Are you really sure you want to get mixed up in it? I mean, we have more patients than we can handle back at the office. Why come all the way out here for this one?”

Adam sighs. “I almost didn't. The mother – Mrs. Martin – is not the friendliest woman I've ever met.”

“So why...?”

“Honestly? It was the sister. Becky. Jaime, you should have seen the way she looked at me. She's worrying herself to death over this. I think she would have come with me if she could. She's already been more helpful than the mother – she gave me these,” Adam says, gesturing to the papers. “All her brother's letters. Just about broke her heart to let them go.”

“And you've read them?”

“Yeah. Read them all that night.”

Jaime's looking at him as closely as he can while still keeping them on the road, and Adam tries his best to avoid his gaze. He has a feeling he knows where this is going.

“And? What did you think?” Jaime asks.

Adam shrugs. “They were interesting,” he says, trying to keep his voice light, casual.

Jaime's not buying it. Of course. “Bullshit,” he says. “Can't lie to me, Adam. I've known you too long. You're invested in this already, aren't you? Read a stack of old letters and that bleeding heart of yours just took over. I'm right, aren't I?”

Adam narrows his eyes and presses back into his seat, suddenly defensive. “There's nothing wrong with caring,” he says.

The car jerks to a sudden stop, and Adam's glad they're on a completely deserted country road. Jaime turns in his seat and gets right in Adam's face. The light glints off his glasses, so Adam can't quite see his eyes, but he's been under that stare enough times to know the fire in it. It's one of the things he likes about Jaime as a doctor. He's passionate.

“Now you listen to me, Adam. Of course there's nothing wrong with caring. I care. I care all the damn time. But I _know_ you, and I know that look on your face. There's probably something going on here, that I agree with. But just...don't let yourself too involved, ok? At the end of the day, it's just another patient. And no patient is worth your career. You can't afford another...”

Adam cuts him off. _“Fine,_ Jaime, I get it. I hear you, ok? It's only a week, anyway. A week isn't enough time to...well. Just drive.”

For a minute, Adam thinks that Jaime's going to keep after him, and he grits his teeth and stares out the window at the winding road, wishing they were moving again. Finally, Jaime backs off and eases them back up to speed, and the moment's passed.

The rush of the wind cools his head, and Adam groans inwardly. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly. “You're right.”

“Just be careful. You're too good a partner to lose.”

Adam spends the rest of the drive looking out the window, watching the trees go by, and his hands rest gently on the letters in his lap, careful not to let them blow away.

*

_Hi Becky._

_I never wrote a letter before. Well, maybe a long time ago in school. I don't really remember._

_It's ok here. Don't worry. Kind of boring though._

_(illegible)_

_No. Don't tell Mom anything. I don't have anything to say to her._

_I miss you._

_Tommy_

*

Riverstone Institute is beautiful, in a lonely, imposing sort of way. The building itself sits in the middle of a clearing, dark gray stone rising out of green grass, and Adam's immediately struck with how _old_ it looks, like it could have been sitting there forever, almost, carved out of the living rock. It's nothing like the facilities he's used to, which are often more window than wall and seem to always be decorated in pastels.

Jaime pulls right up to the end of the drive and parks. When Adam doesn't move, he clears his throat and says, “I believe this is your stop.”

Adam's been staring at the door: heavy, oversized wood, with angular patterns carved deep into it, just starting to round themselves out with exposure to wind and water. He shakes himself and turns back to Jaime, gives him a half-smile. “Thanks again for driving me.”

Jaime waves his gratitude away and smiles back. “Need a hand with your things?” he asks.

“I'm good, thanks,” Adam replies, reaching to pull his small bag out of the backseat.

He's reaching for the door when Jaime speaks one more time. “Make sure you call me, Adam, if you need anything – not just for a ride back. _Anything._ Riverstone might like to operate in total isolation, but you don't have to play by their rules. Ok?”

Adam nods, but he can hear the distraction in his own voice as he says, “Ok. I will.” His eyes edge back to the door.

Jaime sighs. “Go on, go. Go save the damn world,” he says, affection and exasperation warring for dominance in his tone.

At that, Adam flashes Jaime a real smile, a momentary flash of a grin before stepping out of the car and starting to climb the short flight of stairs that leads to the door. He hears Jaime rev the engine and pull away and pauses a moment, turns around to watch as the car shrinks into the distance, finally disappearing back into the lush summer forest. He takes a deep breath, and in the air he can smell nothing but living, growing things, grass and trees and flowers, and underneath all that something cool and fresh and green, perhaps the scent of rain, very far off but coming closer. It's a far cry from the smell of the highway fumes and urban sprawl he's used to, and it's exciting and unsettling all at once, something _new._

Behind him, the door opens, and he hears someone clearing their throat pointedly. He spins around to find a nurse in a white uniform staring down at him with a pinched look on her face, and he quickly rushes up the rest of the stairs, pushing away the shock of embarrassment that threatens to flood through him. He knows what he looks like, red hair and freckles and glasses, but he forces a smile through all that, hopes that's it's enough to make a good impression once again.

“Hi there, I'm, uh, here to see Dr. Marsh? I'm...”

The nurse cuts him off. “Dr. Lambert. Of course. Come in.”

She turns and moves inside without once looking back to see if he's following, and Adam adjusts his grip on his overnight bag and follows, closing the heavy door behind him. The front hall is smaller than Adam had expected looking at the building from the outside, and it takes him a few minutes to realize that the closed-in feeling is the fault of low ceilings, so low that he has to force himself not to hunch down as he walks. The nurse moves along briskly, leading him to a room on the opposite side of the building. She opens the door and gestures him inside, shutting the door behind him as soon as he's clear, without a word of explanation or instruction. Her footsteps fade away, and Adam finds himself alone in a rather stuffy and cluttered room that looks like a library or study, the handles of his bag starting to slide in his sweaty palm. He sets the bag down and looks around, unsure of what to do next. After a moment of thought, he realizes that there's nothing for it but to wait.

The books on the walls are mostly recognizable – Adam even has a few of them back in his own office at home – but the collection is more comprehensive than any Adam's seen since he was in school. He goes to a shelf and runs his fingers along the leather bindings, reading the embossed-gold titles aloud to himself under his breath. He doesn't feel quite right taking any of the books from their places, though, and so eventually he turns away.

There is a desk in the middle of the room covered all over with papers, some stacked neatly, some scattered as if they've been thrown. Adam steps to the desk and looks down at the nearest sheet, his eyes glancing over the neat printed text and the completely illegible notes scribbled in red on top. The language is dense and formal, as if it belongs in one of those books, and Adam thinks back to all the times he's seen Dr. Marsh's byline in medical journals, newspapers – even in one of his own textbooks, if he remembers correctly. It's intimidating, and Adam can feel himself starting to get nervous again. He shakes his head at himself, trying to shrug off the anxiety, wondering how long he's going to have to wait.

He's just pulled out his phone to check the time when the door finally opens, and he looks up to find an older man in a white coat watching him from the doorway.

“No coverage out here, I'm afraid,” he says, gesturing at Adam's cell. “But I have a phone in my office...if it's an _emergency?”_

This last is asked with a quirked eyebrow, and Adam shakes his head and quickly fumbles the phone back into his pocket. “No, not at all.”

“You must be Dr. Lambert.” The man proceeds into the room. “Dr. Marsh,” he says. “A pleasure to meet you.” He extends a hand, and Adam smiles politely and shakes, though the coolness of the man's tone suggests he's anything but pleased.

“It's an honor to meet you, Dr. Marsh. I've heard amazing things about your work. It's said to be very innovative,” Adam says, keeping his tone friendly and even.

“Is it now?” The man pulls his hand back and gives Adam an appraising look, his mouth pressed into a thin line, practically radiating distaste. “I've been hearing more and more about you as well. They say you're a prodigy – the youngest ever to come out of Woodings, if I remember correctly.”

Adam nods, used to fielding this particular mix of admiration and jealousy. “I wanted to get licensed as quickly as possibly. Academia wasn't exactly my reason for entering the field.”

Usually this leads to a conversation about why he _had_ chosen psychiatry, and Adam enjoys talking about that, is usually able to win over even the most skeptical traditionalist with the story of his grandmother and her illness, how it had effected him as a child, how he had only wanted to understand and comfort and help.

Dr. Marsh, though, can't possibly look more uninterested, and Adam groans inwardly. The older man is the very picture of a good old boy, gray hair and thick beard and round glasses and a decidedly condescending air. He looks down his nose at Adam in a rather unsettling way, and Adam quickly changes tactics. Flattery. Flattery always works.

“I actually attended one of your seminars at Woodings while I was a student there – your speech on cognitive behavioral therapy? You probably won't...”

Dr. Marsh's eyes flash. “Oh, _that's_ right. I do remember you. You kept asking questions.”

Adam can feel himself flushing, embarrassed. “It was an amazing presentation.”

“And your own practice now?”

“Shared, but...yes.”

“Astounding how things have changed since the old days. It took me twenty years of working under Dr. Barrett before I had any authority of my own. They do still teach his text on conditioning, or has that changed as well?”

Adam nods quickly. “Not at all. I mean, I don't know about now, but when I was there...”

Dr. Marsh cuts him off and gestures to a small portrait on the wall. “This was his private office, before he passed. Never had a chance to finish his last work.”

Adam glances down at the desk and feels an unexpected chill go through him. “And...do you plan to...”

“My own work demands all my attention. Riverstone has moved on,” Dr. Marsh replies, turning his gaze back to Adam. “But look at you, what, only three years out of university? And already at the top.”

He doesn't voice the rest of the thought, but Adam can hear it in his tone, that _what is the world coming to_ judgment that the older generation is so quick to throw his way. Adam wants to defend himself, wants to throw his accomplishments back in the man's face. He says nothing.

“Be that as it may...I can't help but share my concerns regarding your reason for coming here. I strongly feel this particular patient would be best served continuing under his current treatment. My own.”

Adam nods. “I understand your feelings, doctor. But the patient's family does have the right to ask for a second opinion. That's all I'm here for.”

Dr. Marsh pins him with a look of surprising intensity, and Adam forces himself not to look away. There's a long pause, uncomfortably long, long enough to make Adam want to start apologizing, though he's done nothing wrong. He thinks about the letters, and about the stricken look on Becky Martin's face when she talked about her brother, and holds his ground.

Finally, Dr. Marsh turns away. “Well, then. You meet with the patient in two hours – room 27. The nurses will show you.”

It's sudden, shockingly so, and Adam doesn't think before he speaks. “So...you'll have the patient history brought to me, then?” he asks, narrowing his eyes at the back of Dr. Marsh's head.

Dr. Marsh pauses and glances back over a shoulder. “You're the prodigy, Dr. Lambert. I should think you could manage without.”

Just like that, he's gone, and Adam is left standing alone in the library again, with a sinking feeling and a moment of deep regret for taking this assignment at all.

*

_The doctors are pretty nice. The one in charge is Dr. Barrett. I haven't seen him very much yet. He keeps asking me questions, and I answer them, and he goes “hmm.” Just like that, “hmm.” I don't know what that means. I kinda wanna ask him._

*

The room is empty, barren, especially compared to Adam's own office back home – plain white walls and bleach-scrubbed tile floor. Two plastic chairs. A metal table. Desolate. Adam half-expects the place to be lit by a bare bulb hanging by a string. Instead, the room is filled with a buzzing florescent light that flickers slightly every so often, just barely enough to notice, an audible sensation more than a visual one.

He means to thank the nurse who brought him here, but when he turns, she's already disappearing down the hall. The silence of the place is heavy, oppressive, and calling after her seems out of the question, like breaking some unspoken rule.

Instead, he looks back into the room. And this time, he notices the hunched figure in the corner, as quiet and still as the rest of this place, part of that silence.

Adam takes two steps in and closes the door behind him, watching for a reaction. He can feel his brain clicking over into observation mode, ready to notice everything, store it for later analysis. Going in nearly blind like this...no official history, nothing but the vagaries of what the family remembered and a few old letters...it's horrible, completely against procedure, and petty to boot. But, he thinks, maybe it could be a good thing – less room for preconceptions, expectations, just what he can find out on his own. At least he knows the patient's name. It's not much, but it's somewhere to start.

“Tommy?” he says, even, soft. The figure is facing away from him, and he doesn't want to startle.

When there's no response, he moves closer, cocking his head, trying to find the face hidden under all that shaggy brown hair. Tommy (Adam's never able to call them “the patient” for very long, even in his own head) is sprawled out over the floor like he's been thrown there, head leaning into the wall, eyes staring dully into the middle distance. Adam crouches down next to him, still trying to get a good angle on his face. He nearly has to press his own face into the opposite wall to be able to see properly, and when he finally can, it takes all his experience, all his training, just to keep from gasping out loud.

It's the thinness that's the worst. The lines are all wrong, sunken where they should be full, bones far too prominent, dark eyes too big, too exposed. He's so pale Adam can almost see the blue tint of veins splitting under his skin, and his lips are cracked and dry, painfully so, burning an angry bright red under the flaking of dead white flesh. He gives no sign that Adam's there at all, just breathes and stares and sprawls, and it doesn't matter that he's a complete stranger and just another patient, just another day at the office – Adam's heart breaks a little. Jaime's words flash through his head, something about holding back, not letting himself get too involved. But Jaime's not here, not looking down at this broken shell of a person, so clearly in pain, and Adam can be nothing other than what he _is._

Adam's not ready to push yet, so he sits himself down with his back against the wall and keeps watching, looking closer, looking for more. His gaze drifts down to Tommy's hands, all jutting bone. The nails are ragged and broken, the cuticles dull red-brown with old wounds. Bitten and picked at, clearly, but not for a while, not inflamed enough to be very recent. The wrists are impossibly small, frail, stick-like arms disappearing into standard-issue white cotton. The clothes hang off him like they're still on the rack, obscuring the rest of his body. His feet are bare, and Adam can see his toes twitch now and then against the tile. They must be cold.

He looks up again, finds Tommy's eyes. They're not empty, those eyes, nor are they full of shadows as Adam's so often seen in the past. Instead, they look like...like closed windows, shuttered to the world. Like anything at all could be hiding behind them.

Adam watches those eyes as he speaks, hoping for a glimpse of... _something._

“Hi, Tommy. I'm Adam. Your mom and your sister sent me to see how you were doing.” He pauses, waiting for a response. “How are you feeling today?”

Still nothing, not even a flicker. “Ok,” Adam continues. “I'll tell you about me, if you want. I like to talk. My mom always said I could carry on a conversation with a wall if I had to.”

He smiles to himself at the memory and starts at the beginning, going through the whole spiel, everything from growing up in Indiana to his parents to his favorite color to why he became a psychiatrist. Somewhere along the way, he realizes he's stopped paying attention to Tommy, is looking out into the room instead. He chides himself mentally and turns back to Tommy – and this time, he _does_ gasp out loud, despite his best efforts not to.

Tommy is staring right at him, unblinking. That alone would have been startling enough, but it's the malice there, the intensely hot anger, that shakes Adam to the core. He quickly runs back over what he's been saying, wonders if he's said something offensive, or worse, triggering.

He's opening his mouth to speak again – though he has no idea what to say – when Tommy suddenly jerks into motion, coming at him too fast to avoid. Ruined, jagged nails dig into Adam's cheeks as Tommy claws at him, wild, almost feral. It's not until he feels the stinging pain start to sink in that Adam reacts, grabs at Tommy's flailing arms and catches him by the wrists, easily overpowering him and holding him in place as he struggles.

He keeps his voice as steady as he can and wonders if that's blood he can feel welling up on his cheek. “Tommy...Tommy, shh. It's ok. I'm not gonna hurt you. We don't even have to talk. Let's just...we can just sit for a while, ok? Can we do that?”

And just like that, all the tight-strung tension goes out of Tommy's body and he crumples into the corner again, totally different than before, curled up in as tiny a ball as he can force his limbs into. Adam lets him go, wondering where to go from here.

He can barely make out Tommy's words when they come, tiny and high-pitched, an edge behind them that sounds like desperation and the last threads of hope. “Just another trick.”

Adam's eyes widen in surprise. “Tommy...no one's tricking you. Why do you think that?”

But Tommy's back to being unresponsive, and after a few minutes Adam settles back against the wall, tenderly feeling at the scratches on his cheek. His eyes keep sliding over to Tommy, trembling against the floor, and he finds himself wondering how much of his life Tommy's spent like this, just like this, huddled in corners, cold and alone and lashing out at anyone who came near. The thought makes him wince, a dull ache in his chest echoing the sharp, pointed lines of pain Tommy's nails have drawn on his face.

His immediate instinct in a bad situation is always to touch. With some patients, it works like a dream, and they go easily, accepting whatever comfort he's willing to give. Adam wants nothing more than to lay his hand over Tommy's where it rests on the floor, curled up into a loose fist, wants to give him the kind of quiet soothing that only comes without words. But considering the little he's managed to find out so far...that seems like an extraordinarily bad idea.

No touching, then. No speaking, either, not with the chance of another violent outburst. Out of options, Adam finds himself falling back on an old habit, something he's used to beat back the silence ever since he can remember. He starts to sing.

It's nothing special, he knows, but it _feels_ good, has always felt good, just to let his voice wander quietly up and down the scale. His thoughts drift a moment to his mother, his amazing mother who, when he thought he was going to drown under the weight of a hundred credit hours of research papers and oral exams, pushed him into the school choir against all his protests of no energy, no time. He knows first-hand the comfort of music.

Time passes, the minutes ticking away. At some point, he shifts from random vocalizing into a recognizable melody, though he still doesn't put words to it – words seem out of place right now. Slowly, the music calms him, and it's only now that he realizes how badly Tommy's actions have shaken him, completely unexpected as they were. His heartbeat slows, and his breathing evens in between the phrases, and he starts to feel like himself again. He can't quite bring himself to look back down at Tommy's face, unsure what he might find there, not sure which would be worse – near-dead blankness or that boiling-over momentary rage. Instead, still singing, he glances out at Tommy's bare feet, curled against the cool tile. And there, smallest of motions...Tommy's right foot is twitching. No...that's not quite right...tapping? _Moving_ in some fashion. But that's not the important part. The important part is that whatever he's doing, he's doing it to the beat of Adam's song...and suddenly Adam's singing through a smile.

It's so small that it's almost nothing, and Adam would be hard-pressed to call it anything like results. Instead, it feels like...like a beginning, a seed. A _connection,_ and that more than anything is what gives him hope. It's enough to start with.

Adam keeps singing until the hour is gone, watching Tommy carefully, wary of another sudden burst of movement, eyes fixed on that one tiny sign of life. And as he sings, he plans, plans out how exactly his conversation with Dr. Marsh is going to go the second he gets out of this room.

Two nurses come to fetch them at the end of the session. One is the same nurse who'd met him at the front door, gray-haired and stern, and she goes to Tommy without a second look at Adam, taking him firmly by the elbow and pulling him to his feet. Tommy goes easily, and Adam gets the feeling this is a common occurrence, a touch he recognizes. He watches as Tommy's led out the door, bare feet silent on the cold tile. When the two figures are out of sight, he turns to the second nurse, who's watching him, her hands restless and wringing at each other. She's much younger than the first, maybe even close to his own age, and Adam gives her a friendly smile. She doesn't smile back, her eyes drifting instead to the marks on his left cheek, and he feels his face fall at the concern in her eyes.

“Um...Dr. Lambert...Dr. Marsh would like to see you,” she says quietly.

Adam narrows his eyes. “Good. I have a few things I need to say to him, too.”

*

_I'm glad school is going good for you. It's really weird not to be there. I wonder if people know where I am. Has anyone asked you about me? If they do, just tell them I switched schools or something. Or I guess you could tell them the truth. I probably won't be back for a while anyway, so I guess it doesn't matter._

*

Marsh's office is the antithesis of the room Adam's just left, plush furniture and rich mahogany and what's probably the _proper_ amount of clutter – a stack of papers here, an open book there, an uncapped pen askew on the desk. The man himself is sitting with his fingers tented together, watching Adam as he follows the young nurse in.

“Thank you, Julia. That will be all.” Marsh stands and comes around the desk as the nurse – Julia, apparently – makes a quick exit. The man's face twists in a facsimile of compassion as he notices the scratches on Adam's cheek, and Adam feels a slight shiver go through him as Marsh frames the injured area with his open hand, assessing. “That looks like it hurts. Let's get you fixed up.”

“You could have warned me he was violent,” Adam says through gritted teeth, trying to keep his temper under control.

Marsh is back at his desk, going through the drawers and pulling out a few things as he speaks. “You must have caught him in a downswing. But no matter – he's far to weak to do any real damage. Couldn't have you running scared before you even laid eyes on the boy.”

Adam can't decide what to react to first. In the end, anger wins out over curiosity. “Weak? I can't believe he can still stand. With all respect...how could you let him get into that state?”

Coming back with hands full, Marsh gestures toward the sofa, and Adam reluctantly sits. Marsh bends over and starts swabbing at the scratches, making the burn flare up anew. “All part of the treatment,” he says.

“How?”

Marsh pauses for a moment and meets Adam's eyes, his brows raised. “I'll be happy to share my work with you in due time. But you're not here to assess that, are you? You're here to assess the patient. _My_ patient.”

There's a long, tense moment, and Adam holds his ground, staring right back, not giving an inch. Finally, Marsh looks away and starts bandaging his cheek with white gauze and medical tape. Adam wishes he wouldn't.

“You mentioned a downswing. I gather he's not like that all the time, then?” Adam asks, and despite all his effort, he can't quite keep a growing tone of hostility out of his voice.

“Not at all. He's unpredictable, wildly changeable. With this particular patient, there's only one constant.”

“And what's that?”

Marsh clips the last bit of tape and pats it down. “He's difficult. More than difficult, really. Refuses to cooperate at all. At worse, he's violent and dissociative, and at best...well. Why do you think he's here, Dr. Lambert? The powers that be don't waste my time with... _easy_ cases. And to be quite honest, I think that's just what your presence here is – a waste of my time and yours.”

Adam takes a breath, digs his nails into his palms, trying to keep the growing heat inside him from bursting into full, uncontrollable flame.

“Take some advice from an old hand in these matters. Go home. Tell the family he's being looked after. Let me continue my work without this unnecessary interruption.”

It's the final straw. Somehow, Adam manages to keep his voice at least resembling calm, but he can't keep from glaring daggers. “I'm sorry, Dr. Marsh, but unless you're willing to explain to me exactly how keeping Tommy at the point of starvation and exhaustion is beneficial to his mental state, I can't leave. I was sent here to do a job, and I plan to see it through. Unless, of course, you'd rather me come back with the authorities by my side?”

Marsh has retreated behind the desk, and he drops his supplies back into their drawer and slams it shut with a noise like a gunshot. He takes a deep breath, takes the glasses from his face, polishes them on his shirt, places them back and slides them up his nose with one finger. Then he meets Adam's eyes again. “One hour. One hour a day, for one week. Take it or leave it.”

It's not nearly enough, especially with whatever clearly radical treatment Marsh will be administering the other twenty-three. But Adam can hear Tommy's voice in his head, that tiny shaking voice, and he knows he can't refuse.

He nods. “One hour. And phone calls whenever I request them.”

Marsh looks deeply, deeply unhappy, but he shakes Adam's outstretched hand, and that's what matters.

“Now if you'll excuse me. Julia will be waiting outside. She'll show you to a room,” Marsh says, sitting in his desk chair and pulling a stack of paperwork toward him.

Adam is more than happy to get out of there, quiet as he follows Julia to the doctor's wing of the institute, his mind already full of Tommy and what the next day's session might hold.

*

_A lot of the other people here like to pray. There's a little place they call a chapel, even though it just looks like another room to me. They don't make me go, but I can still hear them singing, and a lot of them say prayers before they eat. It makes me mad. Not at them, though. I'm a little jealous of them, actually. They have one more thing to make them feel a little better. It makes me mad because it reminds me of Mom._

*

The room is small, but at least it's private. Adam sets his bag down on the bed – more like a cot, really – and spends a few minutes looking around at his temporary home. The first thing he notices is the dark. The room has the same closed-off feeling that seems to pervade the rest of Riverstone, despite the light streaming in the window from the setting sun to the west. He wonders if that's the age of the building, the weight of history coming down on him, or if it's something else entirely. The walls are bare and painted an ugly brown, and for furniture, besides the bed, there's only a small dresser with three drawers – not even a mirror. The young nurse, Julia, had pointed down the hall before she left, mentioning a communal bathroom and a small kitchen, replenished every week or so by a delivery truck from the city. She doesn't mention which city, and Adam doesn't ask.

He sits down on the bed and looks at his small bag, wondering if he should even bother unpacking it – there's hardly enough to warrant the effort. In the end, boredom wins over, and he takes his time with each item, taking it out of the bag, shaking out the wrinkles, and finding a proper place for it in the dresser. It doesn't take nearly long enough, and soon he's sitting again, wondering what on earth he's supposed to do with the twenty-three hours a day he's not allowed to see his patient.

Eventually, he lays down with the lone novel he's brought with him and makes a half-hearted attempt at reading, but the words blur in front of his eyes, and he can't bring himself to focus. His thoughts keep going back to Tommy, inevitable, as if drawn by the pull of a magnet. He can't remember the last time he was this fascinated by a patient, not this quickly, anyway. Their earlier session replays itself in his head, and he can hear Tommy's voice over and over: _just another trick._ It's the “another” that won't leave him alone, the absolute certainty in the belief that Adam is “just another” in a series of...what?

Adam groans and sets his book on the dresser, then rolls over and throws one arm over his eyes. This is _impossible._ It would be difficult enough to come in to a situation like this, a long-term situation, if the patient's primary caregiver was completely open and more than willing to be helpful. As it is, with Dr. Marsh holding him at a distinctly offended arm's length, not even letting Adam in on the _basics_ of Tommy's condition or treatment...there's just no chance. He's just going to have to learn what he can on his own and hope that it's enough. Maybe, just _maybe,_ he'll be able to come up with enough to satisfy Tommy's family. No way he'll be able to do the same for his own curiosity.

His phone is digging uncomfortably into his hip, so he pulls it out and stares at it, thinking of Jaime, wondering what he would have to say. He moves it around into different positions, willing just one little bar to pop up on the screen. Nothing. Figures.

At that moment, a sense of responsibility comes over him, a weight – a realization of just how alone he is. There is something deeply wrong at Riverstone, something that's calling out to him. It's in Dr. Marsh's hostility, his secrecy. It's in the emaciated lines of Tommy's face and the mistrust in voice. It's written in the pages of Tommy's letters.

He's still turning the idea over and over in his head when he falls asleep.

_In Adam's house, there is a box. It's a hidden box, full of secrets, and sometimes he'll take the box out and look at it, and think about destiny, and choices, and what he's left behind._

_Inside the box are things that sparkle, things that shine in the moonlight, and it's absolutely full of colors. Some nights he'll use those colors, paint himself into a different person, almost, look at himself in the mirror and wonder if it's still worth it, this splintering of self._

_And then he thinks about his patients. About Joan, who had been too afraid to leave her house, so Adam had gone to her. About Timothy, who takes his anger out on his drum kit these days instead of the people around him. About Mark, who only a few weeks ago had admitted to Adam how close he had been to his turning his thoughts of sharp blades and piles of pills into a reality. He thinks about the people he's helped, and all the people who are still crying out. And then he takes out a wet cloth and washes all the color from his face, and doesn't resent them a bit for it – though he doesn't take the same care with himself._

_Tonight he dreams about that box, and the disapproving look on Dr. Marsh's face, and how much deeper those frown lines could go._

*

_Dr. Barrett asked me today if I felt like I was getting better. I don't know what to say. I don't know what they want from me. I feel how I always feel. Dr. Barrett said that there's no rush. I should take my time. I just miss you so much. I miss my room. Sometimes I even miss Mom._

*

Adam's glad to see the same nurse come to accompany him to the session the next day. She seems nice, and he'd noticed a distinct flicker of dislike in her eyes when she'd looked at Dr. Marsh. He can work with that. He's got the blanket from his cot folded neatly over one arm, and though she notices it, of course, she doesn't ask questions. That can be good and bad, both, but right now it's definitely good.

“Julia, isn't it?” he asks, smiling down at her as they walk.

She glances up at him, surprised, and a smile of her own appears on her lips. “Yes, doctor,” she says quietly.

“You can call me Adam. I don't really do formalities.”

“Yes, Dr. Marsh mentioned you were...” She trails off.

Adam can feel a trace of remembered anger flare within him, but he keeps his tone pleasant. “What? What did he say?”

“Um...I don't...” Julia hedges, clearly uncomfortable.

“That's all right,” Adam says, quickly redirecting the conversation. “So tell me about this place. How'd you start working here?”

Happy to be back on familiar, safe territory, Julia starts chatting away about her career history, and Adam listens and smiles and nods in all the right places. He was right, he thinks – she _is_ nice.

Just as she's finishing her story, they reach the door of the exam room, and they pause for a second, Adam stopping Julia with a word as she starts to turn away. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?” he asks carefully.

Her eyes flicker away down the hall, away from him, but finally she says, “What?”

“Would you bring me some toast from the kitchen? Just plain, or maybe with a tiny bit of butter?”

She bites her lip. “It's not...we're not supposed to feed the patients. Dr. Marsh's orders – it interferes with their special diets,” she says mournfully.

Adam's eyes widen and he shakes his head quickly. “Oh no, it's not for Tommy. It's for me. I didn't get breakfast this morning.” Which is true, and also damn convenient right now.

“Well...all right,” she agrees, and Adam gives her a grin.

“Thank you. Just bring it on in when you get back, if you would.”

Julia nods and takes off down the hall, and Adam sighs and collects himself and opens the door, bracing himself for the heartwrenching sight of Tommy huddled in a corner again.

What he sees when he enters the room, however, couldn't be more opposite. Tommy is sitting in a chair at the table, his eyes open and aware and his body a flurry of movement. His legs are crossed, and the top one bounces incessantly, giving him a nervous air. One hand is at his mouth, and his teeth work over the tips of his fingernails, biting, rocking them back and forth, back and forth. His eyes dart to Adam as he enters, wide and brown and interested, but they glide away just as quickly, looking around the room, wall to wall to wall. If it weren't for the same sunken thinness in his face, Adam would almost have taken him for a completely different person.

As he comes further into the room, Adam notices one more thing: Tommy's humming. It's quiet, and Adam has to strain to hear, but it's only a few moments before he can identify the tune. It's the song he'd been singing yesterday, the one Tommy had been tapping his toes to, and Adam can't help but grin. He'd been right. A connection, if only the beginnings of one.

He tosses the blanket he's carrying over a chair and takes a seat at the table, not across the table from Tommy, but next to him. “Hi, Tommy,” he says, curious at what the response will be, if any.

“Hi!” Tommy's voice is high and excited, hurried, like he's bored and ready to move on already.

Adam cocks his head and watches closely. As interesting as yesterday was, this is topping it in every way so far. He thinks carefully about his next question, feeling his way blindly through the unexplored territory ahead.

“Do you remember who I am, Tommy?” Adam asks, and suddenly those eyes are on him again, wide and almost child-like in their interest.

“Adam. Indiana. Leila and Eber. Blue. You just wanted to give your grandmother someone to talk to, but you were little and scared and they mostly kept you away.” Tommy pauses a half-second, and his eyes dart to the bandage on Adam's left cheek. “And I'm sorry.”

Adam raises his eyebrows, surprised and pleased at the sudden rush of words. He smiles at Tommy and says, “That's ok. It's just a little scratch.”

Before either of them can say more, there's a gentle knock at the door, and Julia pops her head in a second later. “Um, Adam?” she asks.

“It's ok,” he answers. “Come in.”

She does, putting a small plate of crisp brown toast on the table in front of Adam and then quickly making an exit. Tommy glances at the toast, but he doesn't say a word, just bites harder on his nails. Slowly, Adam slides the plate down the table to Tommy.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

Tommy licks his lips and nods, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes, and Adam's heart breaks for him again. “Go ahead. Eat. It's yours,” he says, keeping his face as open and honest as he can. No tricks.

Tommy hesitates a second, but then he snatches up a piece of the toast and takes a bite. He sets it down on the plate again as he chews and looks back at Adam. “You're nice,” he says simply.

Adam smiles. “Thank you. So are you.”

Tommy shakes his head vehemently.

“You don't think so?”

He goes back to biting at his nails and speaks muffled through them. “Too fucked up to be nice.”

“Why do you think that?” Adam asks, and Tommy laughs a quick, manic laugh.

“I'm _here.”_

Adam backs off, sensing it's time to let that particular subject go. “Would you like another bite of toast?” he asks.

Tommy looks confused for a moment, then looks down at the plate, like he's seeing it for the first time. “Oh yeah!” he says, and takes another quick bite before setting it aside again.

Adam watches him and thinks, comes up with a new tactic, a fresh way to approach the conversation. “Tommy...what do you think of the nurses here?” he asks.

Tommy only shrugs. All right then. No help there.

“What about the other patients?”

For a second, the light fades in Tommy's eyes, and Adam's afraid he's made a bad misstep. Tommy's voice is flat and lifeless when he speaks. “Just me here. Dr. Marsh said so. Not safe.”

And that statement opens up a whole new set of questions. Of course there are other patients – Adam's seen a few of them being escorted around by nurses – and Adam wants to press the point further. But as curious as he is, it's not nearly as important as what Adam asks next.

“And what do you think of Dr. Marsh, Tommy?”

And now there's no mistaking the outright fear in Tommy's eyes, and his voice is hardly more than a whisper. “I...I can't tell you.”

Adam tries hard to keep his face neutral, but he can feel his eyes narrowing despite his best efforts as the anger comes roaring back. “Can't tell me about Dr. Marsh? Why not?”

“He said...shhh...” Tommy whispers, placing one finger over his lips as his eyes go unfocused.

“Tommy...” Adam says, but Tommy just makes a soft whine of resistance and bites down on his nails with renewed effort, and before Adam can react, he's biting into flesh instead, blood welling up under sharp teeth. Tommy doesn't even seem to notice the wound, but Adam is out of his seat in an instant, rushing to Tommy's side and pulling at his hands, forcing them away from his mouth.

“Come on, come on, Tommy, it's ok, here, just hang onto me. There you go.”

Tommy's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth now, but not hard enough to draw blood, hanging onto Adam's hands for dear life. He rolls his eyes up at Adam, staring out of dark sockets, through dark lashes. “Stay,” he whispers, broken, desperate. “Stay. Stay. Stay.”

Adam freezes at the words. He wants to say yes, of course, wants to make all the promises in the world if it will get that horrible look out of Tommy's eyes. But Jaime's voice is in his head again, the voice of reason. Tommy's not his to save.

When Adam doesn't respond, Tommy's face falls and he wrenches his hands away from Adam's, curling them around his body instead, the same protective position Adam had seen him take yesterday after being upset. Adam glances around wildly, looking for a way to fix this, and his eyes fall on the blanket he'd brought with him, the one from his own bed. He'd grabbed it at the last minute, unable to get the image of Tommy's bare feet out of his head, and now he fetches it from the chair it's been resting on. It's a scratchy brown woolen thing, not what Adam wants to be offering as comfort, but it's all he has.

He shakes open the blanket and drapes it over Tommy's shoulders, where it promptly falls off and lands between Tommy's body and the back of the chair. For a long moment, Tommy doesn't move, and Adam braces himself for a reappearance of the man he'd seen yesterday, immobile, shutter-eyed, and silent.

And then Tommy surprises him, takes a shuddering breath and pulls the blanket up, right over his head and wrapped around in the front, so that he looks like a child or perhaps a nun, cloaked as he is. He stills a little with the blanket around him, no longer chewing roughly at his lips or fingers, but he's also still lucid, and his eyes find Adam's face again, over and over, before drifting away. Slowly, Adam sits down again, letting go a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. It's like walking a tightrope, this. Worse – walking a tightrope in the dark. He doesn't dare take another step today.

Instead, he starts to sing. He chooses a new song, something so familiar it feels as if the words are written deep down in him, right on his bones. As he reaches the first chorus, he thinks – he can't be sure, but he _thinks_ – he may have seen just a flash of a smile cross Tommy's dry and broken lips. He keeps singing, and nudges the plate of toast towards Tommy again, and smiles to himself at the picture Tommy makes, swaddled in the blanket, nibbling on the toast, his head bobbing ever-so-slightly to Adam's song. It would almost be hilarious, in another situation, but instead it just makes Adam happy.

He watches as Tommy finishes the toast and licks the crumbs from his fingers, then glances at the clock and feels a sinking sensation come over him. Time's almost up. He lets the song end and is wondering what to say now when Tommy's voice breaks through his thoughts.

“That's pretty.”

Adam beams. “Thank you. I actually...”

“What?”

And Adam can't resist this, Tommy sitting there wide-eyed and curious and _alive._

“I wrote that song. A long, _long_ time ago,” he says.

At that, a light comes into Tommy's eyes that Adam hasn't seen before, and he's holding his breath again, feeling as if he's on the brink of something very new and very, very important.

And then the door bursts open as before, with not even a knock as warning, and the nurses are bustling in. Tommy's face shuts down instantly, the light in his eyes either well-hidden or extinguished altogether. His nurse goes to him directly and, seeing the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, shoots Adam a barely-concealed sneer.

“He can keep...” he starts, but she doesn't let him finish, just rips the blanket from Tommy's grip and flings it in Adam's face. He catches it and grips it hard, forcing himself to stay quiet. Yelling at the nurses accomplishes nothing. The nurse leads Tommy away, and Adam stays seated for a few moments, feeling absolutely crushed. What does it matter what he tries to do if they all end up right back where they started at the end of it?

But then he glances at the empty plate, feels the residual warmth of Tommy's body on the blanket in his hands, remembers that light shining in his eyes...takes all that together and decides. It's so very, very little...but so very worth it.

*

_Dr. Barrett hasn't been around as much lately. His assistant takes care of me instead. I don't like him. Sometimes, when he thinks I can't see, he looks at me funny. I don't know how to describe it. He makes me a little nervous. Maybe it's just because he's different, though. We don't get to see very many new people here. When are you coming to visit me? I feel like it's been a really long time._

*

Julia escorts him back to his room in silence and leaves without so much as a goodbye. It's not an unfriendly silence, really, but something born of the feel of the place, the way words ring off the walls too loud, echo off the low ceilings to sound like more, louder than they're meant.

Adam goes in and throws his blanket back onto his bed. Then he looks around and sighs. He can't be in here right now, in this dark closed-off place. There's no room to _think._

The world outside his window is bright and inviting, the wide summer sky beckoning him, and it's no decision at all to walk right back out of the room, following narrow hallways until he finds the heavy wooden door and the open air outside.

He walks until he finds a likely-looking tree, one with spreading shade and a smooth trunk, perfect for leaning against. Sitting down against it, he takes his glasses off and closes his eyes, lets the warm summer breeze play gently over his face. Something falls away from him in the open air, a heaviness, and he feels like he can think clearly again for the first time since arriving at Riverstone.

There's a little notebook in his pocket that Adam keeps on him all the time. Years ago, he used to write lyrics in it, when they would spontaneously appear in his head. These days, he writes out case notes and strategies for therapy, and while they don't speak to him in the same way, they're infinitely more useful.

But then again...he settles his glasses back on his nose and pulls out the notebook and the tiny pencil that goes with it, starting to write furiously, scatterbrained thoughts about Tommy and music and where exactly that connection might be. He's never really sung in front of a patient before. Those lives...they've always been so separate. Adam pauses a second, the pencil stilling in his hand, and something wells up within him, a sudden desperate hope that perhaps there is a place in this world for his voice after all.

He can't remember the last time he was so inspired, writing until his fingers begin to ache, until his hips are sore from sitting on the hard ground. Standing and brushing himself off, he tucks the notebook back into his pocket and sighs. So much he could do, so much he would like to try...if only he had the time. There are only five days left. Hardly time for anything at all.

Going back into the institute is like descending into a cave, and Adam can feel the walls settle in around him again, the ceiling close over his head, trapping him in with the aged darkness. He takes a deep breath of the thick air. Twenty-two more hours to kill before he can see Tommy again, before he can get back to work.

He finds his way to the kitchen, though he's not really hungry, and takes his time looking through cabinets and drawers, taking stock of what's there. In the corner of the room is a table with a few chairs, and on it, a bright, beautiful spot of color in all this brownness, is a bowl of fruit. Adam goes to the bowl and plucks out a pair of apples, pretty and red and so perfect they practically look poisonous. Slipping them into his pocket, he takes one last look around the kitchen and starts the short trek back to his own room.

There's nothing to do once he's there, of course. He down on the bed and flips through his writing from earlier, pouring back over it as he crunches on one of the apples. But they are free, outdoor thoughts, and here in the institute they read only as childish, silly. He pushes the notebook away.

The novel he's brought from home is still sitting on the table next to him. He picks it up and tries to read, tries to sink into the world of the story, the words drifting in and out of focus in front of him as his attention wavers.

He wakes up just as the sun's beginning to set, his book fallen closed on his stomach, a little uncomfortable from sleeping in his clothes and disoriented from sleeping at such an odd hour. He stumbles out of bed and shakes the fog from his head, glancing out the window at the fading light and groaning inwardly at the thought of the long and probably sleepless night ahead of him.

He can't be in this room anymore.

Slipping out of the door at this hour feels a little forbidden. Adam glances up and down the hall. When he doesn't see anyone, he eases the door shut behind him and starts to walk, moving away from the kitchen, the door to the outside – moving deeper into the institute.

The place is a labyrinth of stairs and corners and corridors, another testament to its age. Adam's experience of medical buildings is of modern planning, hallways forming neat grids, each door marked with a number or letter or sometimes both. In Riverstone, nothing is labeled, and everything looks the same – one door looks pretty much like another. Adam tries a few of them at random as he walks, just out of curiosity, but finds that they have one more thing in common. They're all locked.

The silence of the place begins to play tricks on him. A noise sounds behind him, a singular footfall, but when he turns, there's nothing but one more empty hallway. He rolls his eyes at himself, tells himself to grow up. It's an old building. They make noises. Right?

And then he sees the door. It looks exactly like every other, no reason Adam should notice it in particular at all. He goes to it anyway, tries the knob. Locked, of course. Still, he hesitates. He runs his fingers over the door, a light skimming touch. It's smooth, cool beneath his fingertips. Just a door. When he reaches the cracks at the edges, though, he can feel a slight, constant breeze flowing through, cold against his warm skin. He furrows his brow at it. It doesn't make sense.

But before he can think any further about it, the door flies open, and suddenly Tommy's nurse, the one that threw his blanket right back in his face earlier today, the one who grabs Tommy so roughly, leads him around by the elbow as if he were _livestock_...she's standing there in the doorway, framed by a darkness so deep Adam can't make out anything of the room behind her. A rush of cold air blows past her, and Adam's blood runs cold with it.

“Can I help you?” the nurse asks flatly, her eyes narrowing at Adam.

He takes a step back, fumbling for words. “Uh...I don't...”

If anything, her face grows only more unfriendly. “You have no business in this part of the institute. Please return to the doctor's wing.”

A thousand questions rise in his throat, and he forces them back down. The nurse stares at him until he nods and turns away, back toward his room.

“It's the other way.”

Adam grits his teeth and feels a flush rising on his cheeks, a distinctly unpleasant blend of embarrassment and anger. He turns around again and strides away quickly, just wanting the situation to be over. Behind him, the door closes with a slam.

He resolves to stay in his room from now on.

_He dreams in the early hours of the morning, dreams of his box of colors and of Tommy. He dreams of taking those colors out one at a time, taking Tommy's face in his hands and filling in the sunken places there, drawing life and health and happiness back into him one stroke at a time. He dreams of eyes ringed in a dramatic faux-darkness, lips smoothed and highlighted in a lush pink._

_He wakes with the beauty of the dream clear in his memory. It fades slowly, like a breath of warm air on a cool pane of glass, and he lets it go gladly. It's wrong, all wrong._

*

_Dr. Marsh says that I'm getting special treatment now. He says he's trying something new. I don't like new._

*

Tommy's up, awake, _alive_ – Adam hasn't quite decided what to call it yet – again the next day, and Adam wonders if the mood has lingered from yesterday or if it's just come upon him again. Adam smiles at him as he sits, resuming their positions from the previous session, and draws the apple out of his pocket, holding it out for a long moment. Tommy eyes it warily, his eyes glancing between the apple and Adam's face. Adam doesn't understand where the conflict is coming from, wishes he did. Finally, he sets the apple down on the table next to Tommy, leaving the choice up to him.

Adam clears his throat, thinks back to his flash of inspiration from yesterday, and begins. “Tommy...do you remember what we were talking about yesterday? The song?” Tommy stills his relentless motion just for a second and meets Adam's eyes, hums a few bars. Adam grins. “That's the one,” he says, pleased. “Would you like to learn the words to it?”

Tommy bites his lip, making it flare up red under the pressure of sharp teeth, and a flash of a dream sparks in Adam's mind for a split-second, sending a shudder through him. He pushes it away quickly, decisively.

“I can't sing,” Tommy says.

“That's ok. It's just for fun,” Adam replies, but Tommy just shakes his head, looking disappointed.

Adam thinks a moment. “Well...maybe I could sing and you could keep the rhythm for me?” He eyes Tommy's twitching feet, the restless chewing at his nails, and wonders why he hadn't thought of it before.

Tommy cocks his head. “How do I do that?”

“If I had a drum, you could play that. But since we don't, maybe...how about this?” Adam reaches over and taps his finger on the metal table. It doesn't make much of a noise, but in the oppressive, eternal silence of Riverstone, it breaks through clear. He taps out a simple rhythm, just a straight beat. Tommy watches for a bit, and Adam just keeps the beat going, waits.

Finally, Tommy takes his hand away from his mouth and rolls the apple away, clearing room on the table. Adam ignores it, lets it fall to the floor with a dull thunk. One thing at a time. Slowly, Tommy starts to tap, starts to pick up the beat. He doesn't follow very well at first, though he tries – the rhythm keeps being interrupted by an errant twitch, a seemingly involuntary spread of the fingers that throws Tommy off. But every time this happens, Tommy's eyes find Adam's finger where it's tapping steadily away, and he falls into a steady pattern again.

Adam takes a deep breath, and, continuing to tap away on the table, begins to sing. He sings his own song, the same one Tommy had hummed back to him, and Tommy watches his lips and nods his head to the beat, the rhythm getting smoother and smoother. A few verses in, Adam takes a chance and stills his hand, resting it flat on the table, and he's gratified to see Tommy keep on just perfectly on his own. He smiles through the song. It's only the most basic kind of music, but it feels good, feels like a victory.

And then Tommy closes his eyes, and the metallic tapping changes, develops into something more than just straight quarter notes, still keeping the beat, but playing with it now, dancing around it. Adam's eyes widen, but he keeps singing, keeps watching, not wanting to break the spell.

Tommy twists in his chair, bringing his other hand in reach of the table, his eyes still closed. The rhythm develops even further as he starts tapping with his other hand, the two beats intertwining with each other and Adam's voice and back again, becoming syncopated, complicated, and still perfectly in time. The rest of Tommy's body has gone absolutely still, all his attention focused in on the task at hand, and Adam grins and watches and starts the song over when he gets to the end, a seamless repeat.

They play until the door opens, startling Tommy out of his reverie. His nurse comes in as brusque as ever, careless of what she's interrupting, and he goes with her as he always does. But just as they get to the door, Tommy glances back over his shoulder and flashes Adam a smile – a _real_ smile, one with teeth and everything, the kind of smile Adam had thought Tommy might be beyond giving.

He's not even had a chance to enjoy the moment, though, when suddenly memory overwhelms him, unwelcome and strong and impossible to ignore...

_Michael’s smile had been what did it, in the end. It was addictive, glowing and white and beautiful, and Adam would have done anything to see that smile again._

_There are a thousand excuses for what happened then: he was young. It was one of his first big cases on his own. And he had never been in love._

_None of them make it right, make it feel any better._

_And seeing Tommy smile like that...it feels altogether too familiar. Familiar, and dangerous._

Julia's eying him warily, and Adam shakes himself, forcing the memories away, telling himself that he's older now, wiser. The mistakes of the past...well, they can just stay there. Tommy's just a patient, and that's all – _all_ – he'll ever be.

Smile be damned.

*

_I've been having bad dreams lately. Then I wake up and it's like the dream is still there. Does that happen to you, Becky? I can't remember if that's a normal thing or a crazy thing. It doesn't feel very normal. But maybe I'm wrong._

*

Adam follows Julia part of the way back to his room. Then, suddenly, he stops in his tracks. She turns to give him a questioning look, and he takes a deep breath. This place is just too isolated. He needs to connect to the outside world, even just for a little bit – something to clear his head.

“I need to make a phone call, please,” he says, keeping his voice as even as he can. The memories have faded, but they're still hovering around the edges of his mind, threatening to come back at any moment.

“You'll have to talk to Dr. Marsh about that,” Julia says.

“Can we go there now? It's important.”

Julia hesitates, but eventually nods and starts off in a new direction, and Adam follows close on her heels, checking to make sure his own mostly useless phone is still in his pocket. He'll need to look up the number.

Dr. Marsh is on the phone himself when they enter the office after Julia's timid knock. He wraps up the conversation quickly and efficiently and then leans forward, his eyes focused right on Adam. “Need something?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Dr. Lambert was wondering...” Julia starts, but she trails off at a glare from Dr. Marsh.

Adam licks his lips and steps forward. “I just need to use the phone. Please. It won't take long.”

Marsh nods his head toward the phone next to him. “Fine. Go ahead. Julia, you may wait outside,” he says.

Adam fishes his phone out of his pocket and finds the number he needs. The door closes behind him as Julia makes her escape. Marsh doesn't move.

“Um...could you...” Adam mumbles, gesturing at Marsh, wanting some privacy for this call but not really feeling right asking the man to leave his own office. He shouldn't have to ask, anyway. It's the polite thing to do, and Marsh knows it.

“Yes?” Marsh stares back up at him infuriatingly, not budging an inch.

Adam grits his teeth. Fine. Let him listen. He dials the number and turns his back on Marsh, the phone feeling big and awkward in his hand. He can't remember the last time he used a land line.

“Hello?”

“Yes, can I speak to Becky Martin please?” Technically, Mrs. Martin is his employer and the one he should be reporting to, but he doesn't think he can stand to hear another unfriendly voice right now.

“Speaking.”

“Becky, it's Dr. Lambert. How are you?” Adam hopes she'll remember him. It's been a little while since their meeting, after all.

“Adam! Have you seen Tommy? How is he? Is he ok? Has he mentioned me? What do you think of Riverstone? Why haven't they been returning our calls?” Becky hardly pauses for breath between her questions, and it would be funny but for the tone of desperation and worry in her voice.

Adam swallows hard, wondering what to say, what he _can_ say with Dr. Marsh sitting _right there._ “One question at a time, ok, Becky? Yes, I've seen Tommy, a few times now. I'm sorry for not calling you earlier. Communication is pretty limited out here.”

“And he's...he's ok?” she asks, hesitant.

“It's...hard to say. After all, you have to remember that I didn't know him before. I can only remark on what I see now.”

“Oh. I see. Well...I could tell you about him, if that would help?”

Adam can practically feel Marsh's eyes burning into his back. “It would definitely help, Becky, but unfortunately, I don't have very much time.”

Becky sounds crestfallen. “Oh. Ok.”

“It's all right, Becky. Tell your mother that I'll have a full report for both of you at the end of the week, ok? We can go from there.” Becky makes a small sound of acknowledgment, and Marsh clears his throat loudly from behind Adam. Time's almost up.

“Wait...Becky? Tell me just one thing, if you could. Did Tommy...was he a musician, before? Play any instruments, anything like that?” Adam asks.

She's quiet for a minute, thinking. Then she says, “Dad played guitar, a little. He and Tommy might have played some together. I don't remember. And I don't know what happened to his guitar after he died. I never saw it again.”

Adam nods, tucks this little tidbit of information away in the back of his mind to think over later. “Thank you, Becky. Don't worry. It'll all turn out ok in the end, you'll see.”

She sighs audibly over the line. “Ok. Bye, Adam.”

“Talk to you soon, Becky.”

Adam turns around and hangs up the phone, finds Dr. Marsh still watching him. “Musician, is he?” Marsh asks, voice tinged acidic.

“You've been his doctor for years. You should know.” Adam throws the words violently in Marsh's face and strides out of the office, blowing right past Julia as he heads for his own room.

He finally collapses back in bed, groaning, eyes closed. He was right – talking to Becky was exactly what he'd needed right now. He scolds himself for forgetting his purpose here, for forgetting that he's not here to treat, just to observe, gather data and present it to the client. From here on out, Adam thinks, their sessions are going to have to change. Business first.

And maybe then...but no. He forces the thoughts away, focusing on the present. There is no then. There is only the case right now. Nothing else matters.

_Tommy haunts his dreams that night, a phantasm following him through cycle after cycle of sleep, ever-present. Adam dreams of him with a guitar in his hands, long fingers playing over the strings, all that natural talent set loose to run. He dreams of singing over that music, singing not only with Tommy but to him, songs about all the beautiful things in the world, beautiful and wild and free._

_He dreams of that music drawing them closer and closer, of how soft Tommy's skin would feel under his touch, how his eyelashes would flutter under the benediction of a gentle kiss, how it would be to take Tommy's fragile form into his arms and hold him close, away from the rest of the world, wrapped in a veil of music and Adam for the rest of eternity._

*

_I'm sorry I haven't sent you a letter in a while. I just don't have anything interesting to say. You probably don't care anyway._

*

The dream is still with Adam when he gets to the session the next day, unshakeable, and despite everything, he lets it be. It's only a dream, after all. It has no meaning, no power, unless he chooses to grant it such. He is stronger than his subconscious.

He sits down in his customary chair and holds out an orange, scavenged from the breakfast table. Tommy takes it without a word and starts picking at it ineffectually, quick repeated motions. Tiny flecks of bright orange peel catch under his nails, and Adam finds himself forgetting whatever it was he'd meant to say, distracted. He suddenly wants to snatch up Tommy's hands and _wash_ them, hold them between his own and run them under warm water, rub soap in soft circles into the skin and rinse it clean away. He wants to take a file and sand off all the jagged edges of Tommy's nails, hold Tommy's hands still and carefully edge dirt and grime and orange peel out from under each nail, the smell of citrus pervading the room, each bit leaving slight traces of yellow on Tommy's white-on-white skin.

It's Tommy who breaks him out of this line of thinking, catches him staring and freezes, as if Adam has caught him doing something he shouldn't. Adam shakes himself quickly and gives Tommy a smile. “I'm sorry, Tommy. Go ahead, eat.” He waits until Tommy relaxes and goes back to work on the orange before speaking again. “So...did you sleep well last night?”

Tommy shrugs. “Didn't. Are we going to play again today?” he asks, eyes flaring at Adam.

“We can later, if you want,” Adam says. He hates to say no to Tommy's interest, but the sense of time running out is weighing heavily on him, and he has no choice but to stick to business. He has four days left to have a case to present. Questions have to be asked. “You didn't sleep at all?” Adam glances at Tommy's face. It's hard to tell, but his eyes do seem a little darker underneath, the corners a little more pinched than before.

“Couldn't.”

Adam thinks a moment. “Do you always have trouble sleeping?”

Tommy's broken through the peel of the orange now, tugging it apart in messy chunks and dropping them on the table to sit in a pool of juice. He sits back in the chair and starts licking his fingers, one at a time, over and over and over. “No. Sometimes all I do is sleep.”

“And...when you can't sleep...what do you do then?”

“I sit in my room,” Tommy says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

“Don't you get bored?” Adam asks. He's been through insomnia himself, mostly when he was drowning under oceans of stress during school. There are a lot of long, empty hours between dusk and dawn.

Tommy brings his legs up to rest on the seat of the chair and wraps his arms around them, rests his head on his knees. His eyes still move ceaselessly, but they're more focused than yesterday. Instead of darting around the whole room, they dance over Adam, hair to eyes to nose to chin to hands to feet. It's a little disconcerting, but Adam takes it as a win. He has Tommy's attention now, and that's clearly a good thing.

“I dunno,” Tommy says eventually, and Adam raises his eyebrows. “Nothing _to_ do.”

“What about before you came here? What did you like to do then?” Adam asks. Tommy just shrugs again. His face is shutting down quickly, a trait Adam is starting to recognize well. He uses the same tactic he's used before – redirection – and hopes it works as well today as it had yesterday.

“Tommy, I was wondering...would you let me...” He wants to use the word “examine,” but it sounds too harsh, too cold. “Would you let me take a look at you?”

Tommy speaks in that same _duh, you should know this_ tone again. “You're already looking at me.”

Adam can't help but laugh inwardly at that, smiling again. He's enjoying these flashes of...spirit? Attitude? Whatever it is, it's good to see, and he stores the moment in his memory, wonders how he can inspire more like it.

“Well, yeah. I am. But Tommy...you remember why I'm here, right? Your mom and sister, they wanted me to come see how you're doing. I'm not trying to replace the doctor you have. I'm just here to...check. To make sure you're ok. And to do that, I need to make sure your body is ok, too. Understand what I mean?”

Tommy sits frozen for a moment. Then his jaw clenches, and his eyes go glassy, and he answers in a harsh whisper. “Yes.”

He moves too quickly for Adam to say anything, stands and pulls at his clothing, shirt and pants landing on the floor in a heap, leaving him shivering in nothing but plain white underwear. His arms keep moving inward, as if to wrap around his torso, but Tommy forces them back down to his sides every time, closing his eyes and waiting.

Adam's mouth falls open. “Tommy...you didn't have to...”

“Don't lie, you're always _lying_ and I know better, just _do it_ already,” Tommy mumbles, and the words are full of vitriol but the tone is not, breathy and pushed, like every word is a punch to the gut.

It's painful to hear, too, and something in Adam's chest clenches in sympathy. A small voice pipes up in the back of his mind, a warning, whispering about lines, boundaries, getting in too deep. But it's too late...much, much too late, if he's honest with himself, if he lets go the doctor persona and listens to the person underneath.

“I'm not going to touch you, Tommy. I'm just going to look. And I'm only going to do that if you say I can. Would that be all right?”

Tommy doesn't open his eyes, doesn't speak. Eventually, he gives a nod, a tiny, shaky thing. Adam takes a breath and stands, pushes onward against his better judgment. He comes as close to Tommy as he dares, close enough to see, not so close that he might break his promise and accidentally touch.

He's thin everywhere. Adam's expected this, but it's one thing to know and another thing to _see,_ to be faced with the jut of ribs and hipbones, the sickening inward curve of a waist that seems small enough for Adam to wrap his hands around. Old scars curl around fragile forearms, parallel cuts that have faded to a translucent white with the passage of time. They run perpendicular to the veins, a sign of ignorance or perhaps uncertainty, and Adam suspects these are the remnants of the “incident” Tommy's mother had been so unwilling to speak openly about, the one that had finally convinced them that Tommy needed more help, more supervision than they could give him at home.

Adam pulls himself away from the scars and circles Tommy's body, coming to stand behind him. And there, far more recent than the scars, is something else...something that seems more and more sinister the longer Adam looks at it. There, in messy patches scattered across Tommy's back, are clusters of bruises. _Deep_ bruises, not the kind you get from bumping into a door or falling out of bed. These, some dark blue and purple, some healing into brown and yellow, these have _intent_ behind them...and they're in a place Tommy couldn't hope to reach on his own.

Tommy's words run through Adam's head again, _just do it already,_ and suddenly he feels sick, dizzy, shocked and angry and afraid, all of it colored over with deep, deep sorrow. Adam's known Tommy for three days – three _hours,_ really – and already he's fascinated with the man. But no, it's more than that. He only has to look at Tommy to want to talk to him, understand him, _protect_ him. And just the thought that someone could look at him, look at the story of what he's been through written in every feature of his body, and want to cause him more pain....

Suddenly Tommy convulses once, hard, a deep shudder that he works quickly to conceal, and Adam realizes that he's bracing himself, probably has been ever since Adam moved out of his line of sight. Adam scolds himself cruelly and quickly moves around to face Tommy again, picking up his clothes on the way.

“Tommy? Would you like to get dressed again? It's a little cold,” Adam says, standing a safe distance away and holding the clothes out like a peace offering.

Slowly, disbelievingly, Tommy opens his eyes. He takes his clothes back and puts them on, and Adam turns to the table, to the forgotten orange. He's not here to diagnose, nor to treat...but he's gonna get Tommy to eat if it's the last thing he does. One of the sections is pleasantly bite-sized, and Adam takes it up and removes the rest of the peel, flicks the seeds out with the tip of his finger. Then he turns back to Tommy, who's fully dressed again. He doesn't say a word, and neither does Tommy, the silence thick around them. Instead, he places the orange section in his palm of his hand and holds it out, waits until Tommy takes it between two long fingers and pops it into his mouth, his eyes rolling up just for a moment as the flavor hits him. They continue in the same manner, Adam peeling, offering, Tommy eating, until the orange is gone and Tommy is licking his fingers again.

Their time is almost up. Adam's just about to brush his juice-sticky hand off on his jacket when Tommy suddenly darts forward and grabs it in his own, brings it to his mouth and licks one long stripe down the center of Adam's palm, his tongue small and pink and warm against Adam's flesh.

And before Adam can speak, can move, can react at all, the nurses are barging in to lead them to their respective rooms, and Tommy drops Adam's hand like it's burning. He lets the nurse lead him out without another look at Adam, disappears into the unknown, leaving Adam unsteady on his feet, head spinning, everything starting to spiral out of control.

*

_You haven't sent me a letter in a really long time. I don't blame you. You should probably just give up. I think I might be here forever._

*

Adam's still shaken when they get to his room, and he can feel Julia's eyes lingering on him, wide and curious. She's new, unfamiliar territory, and she's not who he wishes he was with right now...but she's _here,_ and that's good enough.

He pauses at the door, looks down at her. “Could you...would you maybe want to come in for a few minutes?” he asks.

“Sure,” she replies, a shade too quickly. Her tone makes Adam a little twitchy, a little nervous – it's the tone of a person who's made untrue assumptions about him, who's maybe hoping for things he can't possibly give. But, despite that...he lets it slide. He's so alone here, so isolated, surrounded by faces that are hostile or indifferent or wrapped up in their own pain, and he just needs...

“Someone to talk to?” Julia's asking, already in mid-sentence when her words pierce through the fog in his head.

He lets out a breath and gives her a grateful smile. “Exactly.”

He holds open the door for her and follows her into the small room. They sit side-by-side on the bed, because there's nowhere else to sit, and the silence is awkward, almost palpable.

Adam clears his throat. “So...you're sure Dr. Marsh won't notice you're gone?”

She waves a dismissive hand. “He doesn't bother much with the nurses anymore.”

“Anymore?” Adam raises his eyebrows.

She fidgets uncomfortably but doesn't reply, avoiding Adam's eyes. He can see the conflict on her face, the frown lines that are just beginning to carve themselves into her flesh. Her hair is pulled back too tightly, almost painfully, but bits and pieces are beginning to work themselves out of the mostly-neat ponytail despite her best efforts. She looks like she needs a hug. He wishes he could offer her one, but that feels like a bad idea in about a hundred different ways.

He can still feel the trace of Tommy's tongue on his palm.

“You really care about him, don't you?” Julia asks, her voice wavering with unexpected emotion.

Adam's breath catches for a second. He shouldn't, not more than the general way in which he cares about all people who are sick and sad and lost in the dark.

He answers on a whisper. “Yes.”

Julia stares at him a long moment, still now. Then she shakes her head. “I don't know what it is about him...about Tommy, specifically. He has this _effect_ on people. Me, I wanted to take care of him from the minute I saw him. I think...I think maybe that happened to you, too. But then there's the doctor...”

Adam's frozen in place, staring holes into Julia's flickering eyes. “Julia. What happened? Please...I can't even begin to help him if I have to keep working blind like this. What is it that you're so scared to tell me?”

Her eyes are shot through with fear when she finally makes her decision, but her voice is strong and sure. “Dr. Marsh is a good doctor. Really, he is...with every other patient. Even with Tommy, at first. But...I don't know what it was, exactly. My friend Loraine transcribes his notes, and she lets me read them if I want. Over a period of...it must have been months, at least...he started getting less rational in his note-taking, more personal. He kept saying something about how Tommy was 'taunting' him, somehow. Kept mentioning his 'lack of respect.' About a year ago, he started to withdraw from the other patients. He got as many of them transferred as he could, said he was focusing on one particular case, the one that was going to make his career, and he moved Tommy into an isolated ward. Only three people are allowed in there: Tommy, Dr. Marsh himself, and Ruth. She's...”

“Let me guess. She's the one who brings Tommy to our sessions,” Adam breaks in.

Julia nods. “That's her. She's the head nurse here, been here longer than anyone.”

“So...in these notes...does he write about his treatment? His theories? I mean...what does he actually _do_ back there?” Adam asks.

Something changes in Julia's eyes, and Adam gets the feeling that she's speaking words long withheld, thoughts she hasn't dared articulate. Until now.

“I don't know what he's doing...but I'll tell you one thing. It's not making Tommy better. It's making him worse.”

There's a long silence. Too long, neither of them quite willing to acknowledge the implications just yet.

Adam speaks first. “I found bruises on him today.”

Julia's eyes are hurt, but not exactly surprised. “Well...he does have a history...”

“They're on his back, Julia. There's no way he did that to himself.”

Silence again, and it's frustrating, annoying, almost, how close this cuts, how painful it is. Adam grits his teeth and tries to still the crawling under his skin, the sudden desperate urge to _do_ something.

When he looks up, Julia's looking at him with a small, sad smile on her face. “It's good that you're here. I think...I think that things can't go on much longer like this. And Tommy...”

“Is right in the middle of it.” Adam pauses a moment, breathes, forces himself to think. “Julia...tell me about Tommy, about how he was when you first met him. How much of him came here...and how much happened _after?”_

She nods, her voice taking on a cold, official tone. “Originally admitted after an unsuccessful suicide attempt. Clear signs of personality disorder – impulsive behavior, unpredictable and drastic moods, unstable sense of self. Treatment saw no change at first. Eventually, moods became even more divergent, edging toward extreme behavior. Emergence of erratic violence. More and more difficulty eating and sleeping. Deep mistrust of all others. For which I can't say I blame him.”

Adam listens in silence. He feels like he should be angry, furious on Tommy's behalf. Instead, he's just _sad._

“We have to get him out.” It's the only thing he _can_ say.

But Julia's eyes go wide, and she springs up off the bed and backs away, shaking her head. _“No._ I shouldn't have said anything. I shouldn't even be here...I have to get back to work.”

“But...”

“You don't _know,_ Adam. You think I would stand by and watch this happen, watch him get thinner every day, sicker with every session, if I had a _choice?”_

Adam stands, approaches her slowly. “Julia. _Make_ me understand.”

Her eyes shine in the cold light, and her voice speaks only of hopelessness. “I'm so sorry, but...you'll never get him out. Can't. Won't. I...I'm sorry.”

The door closes loudly behind her, and he stares at it for a long time after she's gone. Something dark twists painfully in his chest, making it hard to breathe, and for the first time, Adam begins to doubt.

*

_I dreamed about a place last night. It was bright and warm and it was called home. I think I must have made it up in my head. There are no places like that._

*

Adam's exhausted when he gets to the session room the next day. He hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, hasn't been able to do anything but try to make sense of all the divergent threads, all the bits and pieces he's managed to scrape together. It's _almost_ enough.

When Adam enters the room, Tommy practically bounces up from his chair and comes to the door to meet him, looking up at him with wide eyes. He looks hopeful, almost _happy,_ and Adam feels like he wants to cry. He knows what he has to do.

“Hi, Tommy,” Adam says. “How are you today?”

Tommy shrugs, a quick twitch of a movement, and goes back to staring at Adam with a focus Adam hasn't seen in him before. Adam almost asks him about it before he realizes what Tommy's waiting for. He pulls a soft, ripe pear from his jacket pocket, light green and sweet-smelling, and hands it over. Tommy takes it back to his chair and sits, nibbles into it with tiny neat bites, and Adam feels a chill tear through his entire body. He's reminded of nothing so much as a trained _animal,_ disturbing even to think about. It only reinforces his determination. Enough is enough.

Slowly, he takes his place in the chair next to Tommy's, dreading what he has to do, knowing he has no choice. As much as he suspects, as much as he's heard...it means nothing without confirmation from the man himself. He takes a deep breath, steels himself, closes his eyes for a brief moment. Then he looks back to Tommy.

“Tommy...I need to ask you some questions.”

Tommy freezes, sensing the gravity in Adam's tone. There's a drop of pear juice trailing down his chin, one perfect drop, and Adam has to stop himself reaching out to brush it away.

“I know there are some things you're not supposed to talk about.”

The pear falls to the floor and rolls under the table, and one finger goes to Tommy's lips.

“Shh, that's right. But...Tommy, I need you to talk to me. I need you to tell me about what happens when you're not here, with me. Can you do that?”

It's too soon and Adam knows it, pushing like this when they haven't even known each other a week. But he only has an hour...fifty-two minutes, now...and the time always goes too fast, minutes trickling away, sand through the hourglass.

Tommy's face hardens, and Adam can actually see the change in him, everything slowing, receding.

“Come on, let's start easy. The nurses come and get us, right? Then what? Where do you go after that?”

Tommy stares at the ground below Adam's chair, and Adam forces himself to be patient, wait.

He's rewarded with a whisper. “Away.”

“They take you away? Away where?”

“Somewhere that's dark. Dark...and cold...and alone.” Tommy curls his hands into fists and brings them to his face, hiding behind them, and Adam can't pretend to respect professional limits anymore, all the heavy thoughts of ethics committees and judgmental eyes outweighed by the way Tommy's body folds in on itself, the fear in his voice, as if it's all happening right now. He leaves his chair and goes to kneel in front of Tommy, up on his knees so their faces are at a level. He reaches toward Tommy, then hesitates, his fingers rubbing against themselves nervously in midair. Adam knows himself, knows that he's in too deep and touch will only serve to make it worse. But what does he matter in the face of _this,_ this pain, this loneliness. He wonders how long it's been since Tommy's felt the touch of a friendly hand, a simple connection that most of the world takes for granted, having never known its lack. And that's the thought that does it, that pushes him through those final few inches, that doesn't let him turn his head and look back.

Adam lays his hands slowly, gently, over Tommy's closed fists. He doesn't press, doesn't pull, doesn't move at all – just stays, still and calm and quiet. Tommy's hands are cold – _freezing,_ actually, and Adam wonders if Tommy's overly cold or he himself is overly warm, or perhaps a combination of both. Adam holds his breath and waits, fights the urge to look at his watch, to ask more questions, to _move._

Tommy's hands relax slowly, smoothly, unfolding like young green buds in the almost-warmth of early spring. Adam lets Tommy guide his own motion, and at last, Tommy's hands are open with Adam's hands resting next to them, hovering in the air in front of Tommy's face. Tommy's eyes fly open unexpectedly, pinning Adam with shot-wide intensity through the slight spread of layered fingers, and Adam does his best to return the gaze as openly as he can, no balking, no turning away.

Moving as if fated, as if guided by another mind than his own, Tommy's hands move out from under Adam's palms and glide around behind them instead. Slowly, haltingly, he pushes down, until Adam's hands are resting full on his angled cheeks, so big that they almost encompass his face entirely. Adam can actually feel Tommy shudder under the touch, can see his eyes close, can sense his breath ghosting out in one shaking release. His cheeks are smooth and warmer than his hands, and Adam holds his own hands still and lets Tommy press into them, rub his face against them as he will, watches him reveling in the sensation as Adam's fingers drift bonelessly over closed eyelids, the slight upturn of a nose, the incongruous fullness of a delicate lip.

It's almost beautiful, watching Tommy take this small pleasure for himself, but it can't last. Adam has no control here, no authority...and no _time._ He reluctantly lifts his hands from Tommy's face and grabs Tommy's hands instead, rubs them over and over as he speaks, trying to will warmth into him, warmth and comfort and strength.

“I'm so sorry, Tommy, I'm sorry, but I can't help you yet. I need you to do one thing for me, and then I can do my best to make sure you're never cold and alone and in the dark again. I need you to tell me about Dr. Marsh.” Tommy's hands grip down hard, but Adam doesn't make a sound, doesn't flinch.

Slowly, gradually, Tommy goes very, very still. All the life goes out of his body, and he lets himself slump in the chair, his hands going lax where Adam continues to hold them. His head falls forward to rest on his chest, his hair falling to cover half his face, and when his eyes open, Adam recognizes the look in them, the blank stare. He's seen it once before. This time, though, he recognizes it for what it is – a shell. The only armor Tommy has.

The words are a monotone, running together carelessly. Adam strains to catch every bit of meaning, wishes he was recording, and discards the thought as useless as he tries to focus on Tommy's convoluted speech. Emotion threatens to overwhelm him as he listens, but this is too important, and he squeezes Tommy's hands and breathes and saves up all his reactions for later, for the person who deserves to bear the brunt of them.

“Doctor talks at me, doesn't listen, doesn't care when I scream. Doctor says I'm sick, says I don't wanna get better, says I don't try. Doctor hurts me when I'm bad. I'm bad a lot. Doctor says I'm pretty but eating makes me ugly. Adam wants to make me ugly, gives me food and I can't help it. Doctor says Adam's all lies. I think Doctor must be right. Adam says he won't go, but I know better. Adam will go and Tommy will be here with dark and Doctor and down down down he goes, where he stops nobody knows...nobody knows...nobody, nobody, nothing, never, no, no, no...”

The words slow to a thick crawl and then disappear completely, and Tommy's gone, silent and unmoving and staring. Adam watches him for a long moment. Then he takes Tommy's hands and brings them to his face, to his forehead, rests his head gently on their entwined hands. He talks to the floor, not bothering to look for any reaction to his words. There won't be any. But he knows Tommy is still in there somewhere, listening, and that's enough.

“I'm getting you out of here, Tommy. I swear it. I've never lied to you and I never will. I'm not leaving – I _promise._ I could never live with myself knowing what's happening here. You just be strong for me one more night, and tomorrow, everything's going to change. You'll see. Trust me, just for one night. I won't let you down.”

It's the hardest thing he's done in a long, long time to let go of Tommy's hands and let the nurse take him away. He watches as they disappear down the long, white hallway, and makes one more promise, this one to himself – that it'll be the last time. The very last.

*

Behind Dr. Marsh's desk is a big picture window, pristine panes of glass between deep brown patterned drapes, a view on the world. It's mid-afternoon, and the sun is just beginning to move out of sight, not much more than a glint of light in the upper left corner of the window. Outside are gently rolling hills, dotted with elm and oak and ash, carpeted with lush green. A summer breeze trips over the hills and stirs the branches of the trees, the movement of the leaves hypnotic, in a way, almost-patterns. In the distance, a pair of deer graze, the picture of peace, blissfully unaware of the world outside their meadow.

Adam thinks about how much he'd like to take Tommy out there, away from the scent of bleach and ammonia, the ever-present harsh white light. After today...maybe....

He's in formal dress today, white coat and name badge, not a hair out of place. He sits in an uncomfortable wooden chair and glances over at the two women on the sofa – as far as he's aware, the only family Tommy has in the world.

Tommy's mother is Susanna Martin, and she sits on the edge of the leather sofa with her legs crossed, her purse in her lap. She twists the handles of it together and apart, together and apart, betraying her nerves. Her lipstick is too thick, and there are deep bags under her eyes.

Next to her is Tommy's sister, Becky. She's young, even to Adam, barely into adulthood, and she sits a little too straight, her chin held a little too high, like she's trying to measure up. As Adam watches, she reaches over and places a calm hand over her mother's restless ones. Mrs. Martin stills for a moment. Then she takes her daughter's hand and begins to rub gentle circles into it, like she's comforting. Becky glances up and catches Adam watching, and Adam holds the gaze before looking away.

He clears his throat and wonders what's taking Dr. Marsh so long.

“I'm sorry to make you drive all the way out here. The situation is, I'm sorry to say, too serious to wait,” he says. There's nothing to say he hasn't already told them on the phone. The rest is waiting for Dr. Marsh to finally make an appearance.

“You mentioned,” Mrs. Martin says. She looks down her nose at him, as if she's skeptical, and Adam can't say that he's surprised. The woman hasn't particularly seemed to like him from the start.

Becky looks between the two of them, clearly sensing the tension, and Adam's grateful when she takes it upon herself to break it. “I can't believe it's been so long since I've seen him,” she says, her voice all false lightness.

Adam gives her a small smile. “How old were you when he came here?” he asks, just wanting to keep the conversation moving, keep that tense silence at bay.

Mrs. Martin huffs. “Came here...you make it sound like he made the choice, like he's at college, or...or on vacation.”

The words are just as cutting as they're meant to be, but Adam lets it slide, tells himself to remember the difficult situation she's in. If she wants to take out a little of that anxiety on him, fine. So be it.

“Can we see Tommy today?” Becky asks, hopeful, devastating.

“I would have liked you to see him already – I think it would do him good to see his family. But I'm not the one who gets to make that decision. I'm sorry,” he says.

The office door opens behind him as he's speaking, and Dr. Marsh is already striding into the room by the time Adam gets to his last sentence. A flash of movement catches Adam's eye from outside the window, and when he looks up, the deer have scattered, disappearing back into the forest.

“Apologies already, Dr. Lambert?” he asks, and it's not a question, more of a challenge, an I-dare-you. And yes, Adam rails against it as Dr. Marsh makes his way to the chair behind his desk, wants nothing more than to start screaming in the man's face and maybe throw a punch or two. Instead, he clenches his hands into fists in his lap and keeps his silence until Dr. Marsh is settled, elbows resting on the desk and hands tented, waiting.

“So,” Dr. Marsh says, “where do we begin?”

Adam takes a deep breath. He's been practicing this in his head all day, and he reminds himself to keep his voice professional, not let the anger seep through and take away from the power of his words.

“Look,” he begins. “I'm going to be honest here...we all know that something's not working. Otherwise, none of us would be here today, least of all me. Now, I want to make it clear that I'm not leveling accusations. I'm not here to do that. But I can say with confidence that, in my professional opinion, Riverstone is no longer a good fit for Tommy, if it ever was. All the evidence I can find points to a deteriorating condition. I think it would be for the best if he were transferred to a new facility.”

They're all staring at him. Mrs. Martin looks on the verge of tears. Becky is sober, but unsurprised, and Adam's glad for their phone calls - _someone_ needs a clear head today. And Dr. Marsh looks...Adam meets his eyes for a moment and can't keep a shudder from running through him. Dr. Marsh looks _smug._

The rest of Adam's speech goes right out of his head at that look, and Dr. Marsh speaks into the silence. His voice is deep, so much deeper than Adam's own, so much older. He speaks like a man much used to being listened to.

“A facility like yours, you mean?” Marsh asks, one eyebrow raised.

The question takes Adam off-guard. “Uh...well, of course I'd be happy to take on Tommy's case. We specialize more in outpatient work, but exceptions can be made...”

Adam's answer fades into the heavy tension in the room. Dr. Marsh turns to Mrs. Martin and folds his hands together, his face taking on a deadly serious air. “Mrs. Martin, did you happen to do a background check on Dr. Lambert here before you hired him?”

Mrs. Martin sniffs and looks around, confused. “I...no...Becky...” she says haltingly, looking to her daughter.

“My friend...she said...” Becky replies, sounding just as puzzled.

Adam can't breathe.

Dr. Marsh gives a grave nod. “Ah, friend of a friend. And that's the trouble with word of mouth, you see. You never know what may come along with that recommendation.”

Mrs. Martin gathers herself enough to pose a shaky question. “Doctor, what are you trying to tell us?” she asks.

Marsh looks straight at Adam as he speaks, and though his voice is somber, his eyes are as pleased as can be. “Dr. Lambert may be hardly out of university, but he's already managed to have himself a rather impressive scandal. Something to do with... _inappropriate_ patient relations. Isn't that right, Dr. Lambert?”

Everything goes red. Adam can't think about Tommy, or the Martins, or the Jaime-voice in his head screaming at him to stay calm, stay rational. He's to angry to _speak,_ knows that if he opens his mouth he'll only make things worse. He grits his teeth instead, _hard,_ and takes Dr. Marsh's barely-there quirk of the lips like a punch to the gut.

“Your silence speaks volumes. It was a rather young patient, wasn't it? Attractive. And, I believe, _male.”_

The words hang like smog in the air, smothering all the oxygen out of the room, and Adam still can't breathe.

Mrs. Martin forces her words through the thick air. “You don't mean...I...what does this have to do with _Tommy?”_ she cries, voice dangerously close to hysterical.

Marsh bows his head, the picture of contrition. “This type of indiscretion often seems to invite repeat offenders. I'm afraid one of the nurses witnessed an... _incident._ There was...well... _licking_ involved.”

The sharp, bright scent of oranges flares through Adam's brain. In the next second he's out of his seat, and three pairs of eyes are trained on him again. He can feel them all, like the sight of a rifle, and he can't hold back the words anymore. What's the point?

“This _man_ is an evil lying son of a bitch who has starved, beaten, abused, and done who knows what else to your son. He's _killing_ him, one day at a time. Take me off the case, don't pay me, I don't _care,_ just please, _please,_ get him out of here!”

Mrs. Martin says nothing. She looks from Dr. Marsh to Adam and back, tears flowing freely down her cheeks now, her knuckles white where she's holding Becky's hand in a death grip.

Marsh gives her a reassuring look, and Adam can't believe how genuine it seems. Then he turns back to Adam. “Dr. Lambert, can you deny anything I've said?”

Adam starts to reply, and Marsh cuts him off, immediately speaking over him. “Be honest, now. Don't make me call for the nurses. They will be more than willing to tell the Martins what they've witnessed.”

Adam huffs angrily. “They're scared of you. They'll repeat anything you tell them.”

It sounds delusional the minute he puts voice to the words, and it's at that moment he knows he's fighting a losing battle.

“Then we'll let Tommy speak for himself.” Marsh's voice could almost be casual, but Adam catches the underlying threat in his eyes, and it makes his blood run cold. He can't do that to Tommy - _can't._

He shakes his head, slowly, defeated.

“Do you deny it?” Marsh doesn't bother to specify which incident he's talking about. It doesn't matter. The answer would be the same.

Adam's voice is only a whisper. “No.”

There's no response from anyone, and the silence is unbearable. Desperate, Adam turns to the closest thing he has to an ally. “Becky...” he says, pleading. “I can explain, I swear I can...”

Before she can say anything, though, a resounding “no” rings through the room, strong and decisive. Mrs. Martin is standing, so full of anger she's shaking with it. “My daughter is not in charge here. _I_ am,” she says. She pauses a moment, glances at Dr. Marsh, who gives no sign. Then she looks back to Adam, pure burning hatred in her eyes.

“Dr. Lambert...you're _fired.”_

The next few minutes are a blur. Adam remembers rushing at Becky, begging her to just _listen,_ to trust him. He remembers Mrs. Martin collapsing back onto the sofa in fresh tears. And he remembers Dr. Marsh pressing a button on his desk, two bulky orderlies bursting through the door in the next second, grabbing him by the arms and dragging him away.

The last thing he sees is the satisfied smile on Dr. Marsh's face.

*

Adam sits at his desk – his own desk, in his own office – and stares right through the stack of paperwork in front of him, trying not to cry. There are no patients for him today. He's not even supposed to be back in the office yet, _should_ by all rights still be at Riverstone. With Tommy.

That name sticks in his head like the chorus of a song, his thoughts going back to it over and over despite all his efforts to think of something else - _anything_ else. He thinks of Jaime, driving him back, unable to keep just the slightest touch of disappointment out of his voice. Thinks of home, the big empty house he's still not quite settled into. Thinks of last night and the sleep that wouldn't come.

He takes a deep breath and looks down at the paperwork again. It's meant to keep him busy, to give him something to do for a few days until patient scheduling returns to normal. That's what Jaime had told him this morning, anyway, when he'd shown up unannounced, practically begging for work to do. Adam knows it's not the truth. Jaime doesn't think he's _capable_ of seeing patients right now. He's probably right.

The miniscule text blurs before his eyes, and he folds his arms over it and lets his head fall down onto them, giving up. There's a vice closing around his lungs, drawing tighter with every breath. His mouth tastes of defeat, lying heavy on his tongue, and he swallows hard against it, grimacing at the feel.

They hadn't even let him say goodbye.

The knock makes him jump when it comes, sharp and sudden on his door. One of the new nurses – he's been told her name at some point, he's sure of it, but he can't for the life of him remember it now – pokes her head in shyly and speaks with hesitant words.

“Um...Dr. Lambert? There's a woman here to see you.”

“I'm not taking patients today. Dr. Yeats should have told you,” Adam replies, sitting up and rubbing quickly at his eyes.

“I don't think she's a patient. She says it's an emergency.”

The nurse keeps glancing into the room and out, and Adam realizes that she probably has real work to do – work that he's currently keeping her from. He sighs. “All right. Show her back.”

He rubs at his eyes again, hoping they're not too red, and runs a hand through his hair, hoping the result is something at least halfway presentable. He's in the middle of wishing for a mirror when the door opens again, and through it comes a girl. Young. _Familiar._

It's a moment before he can speak, and by the time he does she's closed the door behind her and is approaching the desk. “Becky...? Becky _Martin?_ What are you...what happened? Is he ok?” Adam asks, all in a rush, and he would be embarrassed if there was any room left in his brain around the irrational fear.

She sits in the chair across from him and folds her hands in her lap, squares her shoulders. Then she looks at Adam. “He's fine. At least...at least, that's what Dr. Marsh says.”

A long moment of silence stretches between them. Then Adam speaks again. “Becky...I can explain, I swear I can. It was a long time ago, and I never meant any harm, and I _swear_ nothing like that even happened with Tommy. I would never...please, you have to believe me!”

His begging sounds desperate and false even to his own ears, but Becky is unfazed, stares at him with the same quiet, watery look she'd entered the room with. Eventually, his words fall silent, and into that silence she gives a tiny nod.

“Yes? You...?” Adam asks.

She answers in a whisper. “I do. I believe you.”

And now Adam really could cry. Relief floods through him, and he lets his head fall forward into his hands, isn't even looking at her when he breathes, “Thank you.”

“That's not all.” Adam glances up at her through his fingers. She's biting her lip, and Adam thinks for a moment how similar it is to Tommy's nervous habit of doing so before he remembers that they're not blood relatives. “I wanted to apologize to you. To just throw you out like that...that wasn't fair. And I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Adam says, which is true, but her apology makes him feel a little better anyway.

She looks down at her hands for a minute, and when she looks back up there's a determination in her eyes that Adam hasn't seen before. It makes her look older. “I'm gonna guess you still haven't heard the whole story. About Tommy, I mean,” she says.

He shakes his head. “Only what your mother told me.”

“And that's...well, it's not really anything. I think she doesn't want to remember.” Becky pauses, collecting her thoughts, and Adam forces himself to be patient, to wait, and to listen all the way until the end.

“I don't have the clearest memories – I was only thirteen when he went away. I do remember that Tommy was always closer with Dad than he was with Mom. I think it was because Dad never pushed him to talk about anything. Tommy was always pretty quiet. Mom was always asking him questions, but Dad would just let him be. When Dad died...it was horrible for all of us, don't get me wrong. But for Tommy, it was worse. I think because of his parents, you know? It had only been a few years.

“He mostly stayed in his room after that. Mom let him for a while, but I was still pretty young, and I think she just got lonely. Whatever her reason was, she started...I don't know, _pushing_ at him. All the questions came back, worse – about school, about _everything._ And when he pulled away, she took the lock off his door. I remember one night, not long before...they were screaming at each other so loud. I think Mom must have forgotten I could hear. She would never have said those things in front of me if she knew.”

She pauses, hesitant to go on, and Adam finds himself slipping into his doctor-voice, the one that's equal parts reassurance and patience. “It's ok, Becky. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to say.”

But she shakes her head, still with that iron determination in her eyes. Her hands split apart and come to rest on Adam's desk, palms down, and he leans forward without a second thought, reaches across and takes her tiny hands in his own bigger ones. She grips them tight, and takes another breath before continuing.

“She went into his room when he was at school, and she was waiting for him when he got home. She'd found these...pictures. I saw them in the trash later, all torn up. They were all of boys. Boys wearing makeup and jewelry and things like that. You know?”

She waits for a response. All Adam can do is nod.

“She kept yelling at him to just tell her, to stop lying. That they could fix it. He told her over and over that there was nothing to say.”

There are tears running down her face now, clouding her eyes as they stare off into the middle distance, and Adam squeezes her hands, brings her back to the present a little. She sniffs and squeeze back, but doesn't continue her story.

Adam thinks for a long time before speaking, makes sure he's chosen the right words. “Becky...do you think he was – is – gay? It's all right. I promise. I understand.”

He holds her gaze, tries to communicate with his eyes what he's still not quite comfortable saying aloud, not in a professional setting, anyway. She stares for a long moment, and finally nods her head. “Yeah. I think you do.” She's biting her lip again, and it's so reminiscent of Tommy it actually _hurts._

“I don't know,” Becky says, finally. “I don't think _he_ knew. There wasn't...there wasn't time. But I know that's what Mom thought. She said...god, she used to say... _what would your father think?_ I think that was the worst of it, because...Tommy and Dad. You know. She knew it, too, kept driving the point home. Maybe she thought that she could use that to, I don't know, _change_ him. But that's...that's not what happened.”

“There was...a morning. It wasn't long after. I don't remember exactly when. He was late getting ready for school, and Mom told me to go wake him up. I found him in bed with...with a kitchen knife...and...”

She wrenches her hands away from Adam's and covers her face, unable to stop the sobs from coming. Adam's out of his chair in an instant, putting his arms around her and holding her as she cries, murmuring those same comforting phrases you always hear, the ones that don't really help but get said anyway: _it's ok, it's not your fault, it's over now._

Becky's still trying to force her way through the story, but Adam stops her. “You don't have to, Becky,” he says. “I saw the scars.”

She rests her head against his chest, and he feels rather than sees her nod. “So...so then he was in the hospital for a long time. I kept asking Mom when he would come home, and she always said that she didn't know. Finally, one day, she came home from the hospital and handed me a brochure. She told me that Tommy was too much for her, that he would be much happier living at this other place. That they could take care of him. I cried for a long time after that. I love my brother. I never cared that he was adopted. He was always just my brother, and I missed him so bad after that. One day I was looking at the brochure again and wondering what Tommy was doing, and I found the address on the back. So I wrote a letter, not really expecting an answer to come back. It did. And...the rest you know, I guess.”

He really, really doesn't. He knows in general, of course. He knows what Tommy's said in his letters. But the specifics of all those years at Riverstone? Adam's starting to think they might always be a blank. He thinks about the last pieces of the puzzle he knows: Tommy before Riverstone, confused, depressed, misunderstood, but still functioning. And then he thinks of Tommy as he's known him. Those pieces just don't match up.

It's Becky's silence that brings him back to the present, and he blinks and realizes she's watching him.

“We have to get him out of there, don't we?” she asks, barely a question at all.

Adam nods slowly. “We have to try. But...what _can_ we do? I could file an official report, sure. But there's no evidence, nothing but Dr. Marsh's word against mine. And I know exactly where that will end. He's got personal and professional connections to half the psychological community in this state – maybe in the country. And who am I? I'm nobody, just some kid. There's no use going down that road.”

Becky looks like she wants to argue, but Adam gives her a hard look, and she changes tactics instead. “All right. What about us getting him transferred? I'm family and you're his doctor...”

But Adam shakes his head again. “I'm not his anything, and you're not his guardian. Unless you can get your mother on board, there's no way.”

“Maybe...” Becky thinks a minute. “No. I don't think so. She's mad enough at me already. I don't think she's going to be listening to me again any time soon.”

And there's that desperate voice inside Adam's head, the one that's screaming at him to do anything, _anything._ The one that's not going to let him be until he does.

He looks back down at the girl trembling in his arms. “Becky...how far _exactly_ are you willing to go for your brother? We may have to break some rules...”

Her eyes widen, and for a moment she looks so very, very young. Then her head lowers, and her eyes narrow, and she asks, “What exactly did you have in mind?”

*

Adam's second arrival at Riverstone is nothing like his first. For one thing, it's absolutely pouring, rain gushing down so hard it's beginning to puddle here and there on the lawn, too much water for the ground to absorb. And that's the very least of it.

He can see the new-dyed blackness of his hair out of the corner of his eye, and it makes him nervous, makes him feel like the dye will come right out with the rainwater, running down his face and giving them away before they've even begun. Becky glances at him from under her hood and slaps his hand away, scolding him roughly. “Your hair is fine – cover your _face!”_

Suddenly he remembers the thick layer of makeup covering the freckles that are scattered over his cheeks like so many stars, and he leans forward under the overhanging eave of the building, hoping that the effect isn't completely ruined. It doesn't have to last long – just long enough. He blinks hard against the water, brand-new contacts a constant watery pain against his eyelids, and waits for Becky's knock to be answered.

The plan had seemed impossible as he'd been describing it to Becky, absolutely ridiculous, out of the question. It hadn't been until Adam saw himself in the mirror after several hours of work that he'd started to let himself believe they might pull it off. Without the glasses, the freckles, the oh-so-recognizable red hair...he looks like a completely different person. He wouldn't recognize himself walking down the street, much less the staff of Riverstone, who had known him less than a week. At least...he _hopes_ that's the case.

The door opens suddenly, making Adam jump. He holds his breath and forces himself to be still as possible, trying not to draw attention. The woman at the door is unfamiliar, and she looks from one of them to the other with an equally blank expression on her face.

“Yes?” she asks, making no move to invite them in.

Becky clears her throat a little nervously, but Adam is proud of her when she speaks, her voice strong and confident. He's dealt with enough disgruntled family members to know that a strong sense of entitlement can get you a long, long way. “I'm here to see my brother,” she says, just the right undercurrent of anger running through her words.

The nurse hesitates. “Do you have an appointment?”

“I _would_ if you people knew how to answer a phone. Now let us in – it's raining, in case you hadn't noticed.” Becky raises her eyebrows expectantly and stares at the nurse. Finally, the woman steps back and lets them pass, and Becky glances back at Adam as they walk by, her eyes hopeful, excitement blended with fear. He gives her a tiny nod, and is gratified to see her face immediately fall back into character. So much depends on her ability to stick to the plan, and it's not that Adam doesn't trust her, exactly...more that he knows how important this is, how high her emotions are running right now.

The nurse closes the door and starts to ask a question, but Becky doesn't let her get more than two words out. “No. You listen to me. I'm Becky Martin, my brother is Tommy Ratliff, and you're going to let me see him. God, for the amount you charge us, you should bring him to _us_ twice a month.” She spits out the words as if they taste bitter on her tongue, and Adam can hear the thread of honesty there.

“I...uh...yes, Miss Martin. Of course.” The nurse looks deeply nervous, and Adam thanks whatever power might be out there in the universe that she was the one to greet them instead of Ruth, the stern-faced nurse who seemed to be Tommy's constant guardian. He has a feeling Ruth wouldn't have even let them in the door.

As it is, this nurse is eying Adam suspiciously. “Pardon me for asking, but who's he? We have a strict policy of family only. For the patient's benefit, you see.”

At this, Becky grabs his hand and pulls him close to her side, a little too rough – he has to throw an arm around her shoulders to keep from stumbling. “He's my fiancé, and he's close enough to family if I say he is. Now take us to Tommy,” she demands.

The nurse looks deeply, deeply distressed, but finally she nods. “Wait here, please,” she says, before darting off down a hallway.

Adam watches her go. The second she's out of view, he takes off in a different direction, keeping hold of Becky's hand. She has to struggle to keep up, her short legs no match for his longer ones, but he doesn't slow down. They have only minutes.

As he counts doors and turns corners, keeping out of sight of the few staff members he sees, Adam feels doubt begin to creep through him, entwining with the pounding of his heart and the rough rush of cold air in his lungs. He goes over again just how dangerous this is, how risky, how _illegal,_ for god's sake. But there's no going back now – they're already in too deep. He thinks he maybe got in too deep the minute he first saw Tommy, sprawled out lifelessly on the session room floor...or maybe even earlier, maybe from the first time he'd sat down and read Tommy's letters, watched as the earnestness, the _hope_ had faded off the pages like so much ancient ink.

He finds Julia's room and pauses just the barest second, praying that she'll be here, that she'll be alone...that she'll be willing to help. Then he takes the handle and moves into the room, pulling Becky in with him and closing the door behind them. Julia is sitting on her bed, staring out the window at the rain, and she jumps almost out of her skin at their intrusion.

Adam lets go of Becky and takes Julia by the shoulders as she fumbles out of bed, looking her square in the eyes and _hoping..._ “Julia, it's me...Adam. Please don't say anything, just listen. Ok?” he asks in a quiet, desperate voice.

He can see the instant the recognition floods her eyes. She stands frozen for a second, her eyes still wide and frightened, and Adam holds his breath. Then, finally, she nods, and he nods back, taking a quick breath. “You know why I'm here,” he says, keeping his tone as calm and even as he can. She nods again. “I need your help. I need you to get us into the locked ward. Can you do that?”

Julia's hands go to her face, pressing in hard, and her eyes slant away from Adam's, her brow furrowing deep. He glances back over his shoulder at Becky, who just looks to the door and motions him to go _faster._ Then he turns back to Julia and makes one more attempt. “If not for me...do it for _Tommy._ You told me yourself that he wouldn't last here, that things couldn't go on like this. Can you really bear to carry that weight for the rest of your life? Because I can't. And that's why I'm here. But I absolutely cannot do this without _you.”_

Becky's voice breaks high over them. “We have to go. Adam, we have to go _now.”_

He catches Julia's gaze again. “She's right. Last chance...will you help us? Help him?”

Finally, Julia's hands fall away from her face, and she takes a shaky breath, staring into Adam's eyes. “All right. I...I'll try.”

She smooths her hair and goes to the door with a purposeful stride. Glancing back at them, she says, “Keep up. You'll only get one chance.”

Adam takes Becky's hand again and nods. “Lead the way.”

Julia takes them out into the institute again, walking fast, and stopping at a seemingly random door. She pulls a tiny ring of keys out of her pocket and unlocks the door, revealing a dim staircase leading down into darkness. They follow her down, stepping as quietly as they can, and the darkness folds over them, leeching the color out of everything and rewriting the world in shades of gray. At the bottom of the stairs is another door, heavier, imposing, and Julia stops in front of it. She makes a complicated series of gestures, and Adam is confused for a moment before what she wants clicks in his brain. He presses up against the wall behind where the door will open, pulling Becky behind him. She ends up flush against him, a warm presence pushing him back into the corner, and Julia gives them one last nervous glance before knocking on the door.

“Dr. Marsh?” she calls, pitching her voice high and frightened. “Dr. Marsh, I'm sorry to disturb you, but it's an emergency!”

There's no response for a moment, and Julia's just about to try knocking again when the door flies open, almost hitting Becky right in the face. Ruth's voice comes around the door, harsh and scolding. “You know you're not to be down here. Not _ever.”_

Julia blanches. “I know, I'm sorry. But please, you have to come. There's a policeman at the door. He says he has a search warrant and we can't keep him out. What would the police want at Riverstone? Are we in trouble? Is Dr. Marsh going to be arrested?” she babbles.

“That's enough. I'll handle this. Come on,” Ruth says, her voice hard and cold. She goes to the stairs without a single look back, and Julia follows her up, leaving Adam and Becky and the open door.

It starts to swing closed as soon as the two nurses are out of sight, and Becky makes a lunge for it, catching it just as it's about to shut. Adam takes the door from her and moves in front of her, peering into the room beyond.

It's dark. Very dark, darker than the stairwell where they're standing. Adam feels Becky's hand curl into the back of his shirt, hanging on tight, waiting for him to move. Very carefully, he takes a step forward, across the threshold of the door and into the room beyond. The door swings shut behind them, closing with a muffled _thunk,_ and Adam freezes for a second, listening, watching the darkness. When nothing moves, he blinks and takes another step forward, and another, feeling his way along the floor, hoping he's not about to run into anything. For a minute, there are maddening thoughts running through his head, spawned from the darkness and the quiet, and for one strange terrifying moment he's absolutely sure that somehow, for some reason, they've been tricked. Tommy's not here, was never here, and now he's dragged poor innocent Becky Martin down here into the dark, and they'll never get out again...and then, weak and pitiful into the silence comes the slightest of whimpers, the kind of noise that only comes from a person after the screaming is done. It grounds Adam, steadies him. Even as a quiet wordless sound, he recognizes that voice.

Finally, in the far corner of the room, a light flares, and Adam shrinks back from it, Becky scrambling behind him to follow suit. The light comes from a little portable electric lantern, and in its glow he can see the dull gleam of wood, the shine of stone walls, the glint of metal. And there, huddled in the corner...there's Tommy, pale and thin and crying, hunched in on himself on the floor. Adam can feel Becky tense up behind him, and he knows she sees him too. It hits him that this is the first time she's seen her brother in years, and he chides himself for not preparing her better. And then, out of the blackness behind the lantern, comes Dr. Marsh.

He looks completely out of place here, perfectly attired in his white coat, not a hair mussed on his head. His eyes are fixed on Tommy, and Adam takes the opportunity to find a place to hide, a standing wooden box to disappear behind. Adam watches as Marsh approaches Tommy, standing tall and menacing over him, the soles of his shoes ringing clearly on the stone floor. Becky is pushing at his back, and he knows she wants to go _now,_ doesn't want to give Marsh another minute with Tommy. But Adam has a better view of the scene, and he can see something Becky probably can't: the weapon in Marsh's left hand. It's black, and Marsh holds it close, but he can still see it outlined against the light – something like a police nightstick, but smaller. He grips it with an easy familiarity, and a chill goes through Adam as he remembers the deep bruises on Tommy's back. One well-placed strike, and...no, they have to wait until the right moment. There's only the one chance. They can't risk Tommy being critically injured, not out here, miles from the nearest hospital. He forces himself to wait.

Then Marsh is speaking in a low, slithering tone Adam hasn't heard before, and he has to strain to hear. “So, _boy._ Still think he's coming back for you?”

There's no response, just that same quiet crying. Marsh waits a moment, deadly silent. Then he rears back and brings the club down on Tommy's back with a horrible _crack,_ and a new scream is torn from Tommy's throat, his body bowing under the sudden pain. Adam's eyes crash shut, and his teeth grit hard together, every muscle in his body going rigid. Becky's nails are digging painfully into his back, and his shirt is wet with her tears where she's muffling her face against him, and he hates himself for bringing her here, for forcing her to witness this. He should have thought of another way. Too late now.

Marsh waits for Tommy to curl up again before his next strike, precise, efficient, calculated. Then he spits out an order, one venomous word: “Speak!”

At first, Tommy remains silent, and Adam wills him to do what Marsh says, say something, _anything_ to keep that next blow from coming. Marsh is already gearing up to strike again when Tommy wrenches his face around, glares up at Marsh with wet, shining eyes. “He promised! He promised me! He said...”

Marsh cocks his head slowly. “What did he say? Did he say he _cared?_ That he was going to help you – _save_ you? But you know better, don't you? There's nothing to care about, and nothing to save. There never was. I thought you were beginning to learn, little boy. You are nothing but what I _tell_ you to be. You think some stranger, some _child_ can come into my world for a few days and change all that? He _left_ you. He's already forgotten about you.”

And even from across the room, and even in the dim light, Adam can see the self-satisfied grin spread across Marsh's face as he delivers his final judgment. “He'll never come back.”

Tommy's shaking now, hard, and Adam can see the confusion in his eyes, can see that he doesn't know what to believe. And Marsh just keeps pushing, keeps after the point with unshakeable insistence. “Go on, boy. Admit it. You know what I'm telling you is the truth. After all...have I _ever_ lied to you?”

When Tommy answers, his voice is the low monotone Adam's only heard once before. Once in person, that is – it's been haunting his sleepless nights ever since.

“No. Doctor doesn't lie.”

Marsh's voice softens a bit, less angry now, more cajoling. “That's right. I'll never lie to you. I'm not like that other man. I only hurt you when it's for your own good, you know that. But he hurt you worse than I ever have, didn't he? He got you believing all his pretty lies, and then he just up and left. That's just cruel, isn't it? Doesn't it hurt?”

Tommy voice breaks over the words, and new sobs wrack his prone body. “Yes, Doctor. It...it hurts.”

“I'm sure it does. And that's why we're going to forget all about him, isn't it, boy?” Tommy doesn't respond, and Marsh advances on him again. “Not good enough. I want to hear you say it.”

Adam's holding his breath, not knowing what he hopes to hear Tommy say, hardly able to think. He'd suspected it was bad. He had never imagined it was _this_ bad.

The room is frozen in complete silence, everything hinging on Tommy's next words. When the silence is finally broken, though, it's not with words at all. Instead, Adam hears...he can't quite believe it, but...so soft he can hardly make it out, Tommy is _singing._

His voice is so broken he can hardly hold a tone, and his gasping sobs wreck any chance of a steady rhythm, and yet Adam recognizes the song anyway, would recognize it _anywhere._ It's his song.

All the false kindness goes out of Marsh's voice at once. “What is...are you...Tommy, stop that. Be _quiet,_ I said!”

But Tommy just keeps right on singing, and Adam's heart jumps in his chest, shocked, _proud._

Marsh is yelling orders now, punctuating them with hard clubbing blows to Tommy's back, hips, thighs, everything he can reach, and Adam is rocking back and forth on his feet, can feel the moment coming, the moment he won't be able to stand back and watch this any longer. Finally, Marsh steps back, breathing hard, and turns away from Tommy, disappearing into the darkness behind the lantern again. Tommy's song is warped beyond any recognition now, but he soldiers on, keeps trying, and Marsh snorts in derision.

“Fine. I'll show you what happens when you side with _him.”_ And then Adam sees the bright shine of edged metal, hears the sharp snick of a blade, and something clicks on in his brain, some deep-seated instinct that blows right past any kind of rational thought and spurs him directly into movement.

Adam only catches a glimpse of the surprise in Marsh's eyes before they're both on the floor, Marsh landing hard on the stone under Adam's weight. He doesn't know what he's doing, has never been in a fight before in his entire _life,_ but his body knows what to do, knows how to clench a fist and aim for the soft parts. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam sees Becky bending over Tommy, wrapping her arms around him, begging him to stand, to just try, try and come with her. Then something crunches sickeningly under his fist, and Marsh's face is suddenly slick with dark, viscous blood. Adam hesitates for just a split second, but it's enough, enough for Marsh to hook his legs and flip them over, free the hand holding the knife and press it hard into the vulnerable flesh of Adam's neck. He can hear Becky screaming, and he wills them to just _go,_ to get out while Marsh is distracted with him, while there's still a chance.

Marsh's glasses are broken, and his hot breath is in Adam's face, blood dripping from his nose down Adam's cheek. The sharp knife-point digs harder, and he can feel the exact moment when it breaks the skin, slow trail of blood leaking out and soaking his collar. He stares up into Marsh's face, and in a startling moment of clarity, wonders how he could possibly have missed the _wrongness_ in his eyes, in the twist of his smile.

Marsh's words are just as sharp as his blade, and though Adam struggles, he can't escape either. “You can't have him. He's _mine,_ you hear me? I _made_ him. No matter how hard you try, he'll never be yours.”

A crazed light flares behind Marsh's eyes, and for one frozen moment, Adam believes with every ounce of his being that he's going to die, bleed out right here in the dark and cold.

And then a sharp _crack_ pierces the air, and Marsh goes still and collapses on top of Adam, knocking all the wind out of him. Marsh's grip on the knife goes lax and the blade clatters harmlessly onto the floor, and Adam stares with wide eyes over Marsh's unconscious body at his rescuer.

Tommy is still gripping the nightstick with both hands, breathing hard, swaying like he might fall any moment. His eyes lock with Adam's, and for a moment he looks as angry as Adam has ever seen him. Then all the emotion bleeds right out of him, and he sinks to the ground, the nightstick rolling away over the stone. In the next moment, Adam's shoving out from under Marsh and crawling across the floor, pulling Tommy into his arms and holding him close. He finds himself whispering into Tommy's ear, just one phrase over and over. “I came back. I came back for you.”

Becky's voice finally breaks through the haze, bringing him back to the present, to the situation they're in, and Adam takes a shaky breath and meets her eyes. She's screaming again, gesturing to Marsh, to the blood on Adam's shirt, to Tommy's wasted figure, and Adam reaches out and pulls her into his arms, holds her for just a moment as she quiets. Over her shoulder, he looks at Marsh where he's laying on the floor. He can see the other man's breathing even from here, and it calms some of the panic that had been starting to rise within him – he's not sure what he would have done if Tommy had...had _killed_ the man. He's not sure he wants to know.

And then he can't think about this anymore. There just isn't _time._ Adam gets to his feet and reaches down, hoisting Tommy easily into his arms. Tommy's arms go around his neck and hang on tight, and Adam steadies himself and looks to Becky again.

“Becky. Get the door?” he asks, and she nods frantically, darting ahead of them and holding the door open. It's the same up the stairs and all the way out of the institute, Becky clearing the way, Adam carrying Tommy along. They don't see a single other person on the way, and Adam sends out a silent thank you to Julia, wherever she is – this has to be her doing.

It's not until he's sitting in the backseat of Becky's car, Tommy resting against him, watching Riverstone disappear in the rear view mirror, that Adam can finally breathe again, that all the shock, all the panic, all the _relief_ sinks in. He has no idea where things go from here, but Tommy's _away,_ and for the moment, that's enough.

*

Tommy lays still and quiet against him in the car, which Adam attributes entirely to shock. He feels more than a little dazed himself, if he's honest, and he hopes Becky is holding it together enough to drive – it's still raining, and now it's starting to get dark, too.

“I can't believe how many illegal things just happened,” Adam says suddenly, without meaning to.

Becky glances at him in the mirror. “It was your plan,” she answers.

They run over a bump in the road, and a new spike of pain splinters through Adam's neck. He takes his free hand, the one that's not holding tight to Tommy, and gingerly touches the area around the injury, trying to assess how bad it is without being able to see it. “I guess it's good, in the end, that he pulled the knife. I was clearly acting defensively – in my defense and Tommy's.”

“And what about _abducting_ a mental patient? What exactly do we say about that one?”

Adam's eyes narrow. “You knew the plan, too, Becky. It was the only way I could think of to get him out. He's out. Plan succeeded.”

“I just...”

“I don't _know_ what happens next. I'm sorry. I don't.” Adam sighs and wonders how he ever managed to get into this situation. His job used to be so _simple._

Becky doesn't respond for a long moment, thinking. Then, forcing back tears, she says, “He looks...oh, god...we should take him to the hospital, Adam. I barely even recognize him. He needs a doctor.”

Tommy stirs against his side, and Adam looks down, surprised. Tommy's eyes are wide and frightened, and he shakes his head, silently pleading. The movement makes his too-long hair fall over his face, and Adam reaches over and gently brushes it back. Tommy's eyes close again at the touch, and he settles back into Adam's body, perfectly at rest.

Adam lets out a long breath and glances back up at Becky. “I don't think that's a good idea. I mean, normally I would agree with you, but...hospitals mean records, and it's probably best for his name to just disappear. No matter what else Marsh is, he's _smart._ You saw him during our meeting. I don't want to give him the chance to win over anyone else.”

“But what about...?" Becky trails off, but Adam knows what she means to say.

“Marsh knew what he was doing. Something like that...it causes a lot of pain, but probably not any permanent damage. He...he wanted to be able to _keep_ doing it,” Adam responds. His stomach turns at the thought, and Becky lets out a choked-off sob. They can't talk about this right now.

“Just get us home, Becky. We can talk then, after...”

She doesn't answer, doesn't question after _what,_ exactly, and Adam's grateful for that. He wouldn't know what to say.

*

It's the first occasion Adam's had to use his guest bedroom. Tommy's sleeping when they get home, doesn't wake up once as Adam carries him inside, up the stairs, lays him under the never-used blankets. He leaves the light on.

Leaving the room is harder than it should be. He keeps imagining Tommy waking up all alone in a completely unfamiliar place, the first _new_ place he's seen in a _decade,_ for god's sake. But there's talking to be done, planning, deciding, and it can't wait.

Becky's sitting in his living room, wringing her hands over and over each other. She glances up as he comes in, her eyes red with crying.

“So,” she says, and stops.

“So,” he replies. Then he falls into a chair and buries his face in his hands. “I have no idea. I guess...I guess he can just stay here until we figure out something else. Or until the police come, _god.”_

“I wish I could just take him home, but...Mom,” Becky says, anger seeping into her voice.

Adam sighs. “Right. Mom.”

“You wouldn't believe some of the things she's been saying about you.”

He looks up and gives her a hard stare. “Try me,” he says.

She bites her lip.

“No, on second thought, don't. It doesn't matter. She's part of the problem, not the solution.”

They both fall silent. Adam fidgets in his chair. This is important, it _is,_ of course it is, but there's an insistent part of him that doesn't care, that only wants to get back to Tommy.

Finally, Becky stands up and wipes at her eyes. “I have to get back. Mom will start asking questions if I'm not home soon.” Adam stands with her, and she hesitates a second, her face conflicted. Then she darts across the room and wraps her arms around him in a tight hug. “Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you for saving him.”

And for the first time in this whole impossible day, Adam feels his eyes tear up, feels his tight control begin to shatter. Words abandon him. He can do nothing but hug her back.

*

Apparently Tommy had been telling the truth, Adam learns, when he'd said that sometimes he did nothing but sleep.

Adam doesn't leave his room. He spends most of his time watching Tommy and worrying, waking him up to eat and drink occasionally, sleeping himself only when his body forces him to. Tommy doesn't say a word, doesn't communicate at all, just does whatever Adam prompts him to do and goes back to sleep.

Jaime calls him over and over, until finally Adam can't ignore him any more. He's angry – the word “crazy” is thrown around more than once – and Adam knew he would be, but in the end he gives Adam what he's asking for: a leave of absence, duration undecided. Adam's thanks are sincere, but Jaime just huffs a heavy sigh and hangs up on him. The dead line is cold in his ear, and he runs a heavy hand over his face. It's only now that the whole mad week is starting to sink in. Things seemed different at Riverstone, so far removed from the harsh realities of the rest of the world. The future seems to crowd in on him, a heavy weight settling over him and not looking to let go any time soon.

He's been anticipating the knock for days, and when it comes, it's almost a relief. He gives Tommy one last, lingering look. Then he glances at himself in the mirror, makes sure he looks presentable, and goes to the door, ready to accept whatever fate waits for him.

He opens the door expecting a man in a uniform. Instead, standing on his doorstep...is Julia.

He's so taken aback that he can't even speak, just stands there staring at her with wide eyes, disbelieving. She laughs, light and free and beautiful, and, for the first time since Adam got home, the fist around his heart unclenches just a little bit.

They sit on his sofa and drink tea, and it feels like everything that has been misaligned in the world is starting to slip back into place, slowly but surely.

“So...he's just _gone?”_ Adam asks, hardly able to believe it.

Julia nods. “It was chaos at first. And when everything finally settled...Dr. Marsh had disappeared. Ruth, too. I guess she must have gone with him.”

Adam can hardly breathe, trying to wrap his head around the idea. He'd never imagined that Marsh would just...give up. But perhaps it's not so impossible to understand, after all. He was not a man much used to being disobeyed. He says as much to Julia.

“You're right. I've never seen someone move so boldly against him. I think maybe he'd just gotten used to the idea that people would just do whatever he said. And you never did.”

“So what now?” Adam asks, able to ask that question without fear for the first time since breaking Tommy out.

Julia shrugs. “Life goes on, I suppose. Riverstone still has patients, you know. We're looking into getting them transferred to other facilities. It will be a long time before we're ready to take care of anyone, I think.”

“We?”

She blushes. “I kind of ended up running things, somehow.”

Adam grins. “Well, I couldn't think of a better person to do it. I can't thank you enough for your help, you know.”

“You were doing the right thing. I just wish I could have helped him sooner...all those years, Adam. I can't even imagine.” She pauses for a moment. “Oh! That reminds me. I have something for you.”

Julia reaches into her bag and pulls out a thick stack of papers. “These are Dr. Marsh's case notes on Tommy. They're...I had to stop reading. But I thought they might be helpful, so...here.”

She offers them over, and Adam takes them, the whole heavy bunch, and sets them on the sofa next to him without a single glance. “Again...thank you. They will be,” he says, and means it. If he can ever bring himself to read them, that is. He sends a discreet glance toward the stairwell, one that Julia notices despite his efforts to be casual.

“It's ok. I just wanted to let you know that...that you don't have to worry. And I know you'll take good care of him. This is...where he belongs, I think.”

Adam doesn't respond, doesn't have the words. Instead, he leans over and pulls Julia into a hug, and though she sounds surprised, she eventually relaxes and hugs him back. “Thank you,” he whispers again, knowing the words aren't enough, knowing they'll have to suffice for now.

Julia pulls away and gives him a smile. “Go on, go to him,” she says. “He needs you. I can show myself out.”

She sets her mug on a side table and stands, gives him a nod, heads for the door. Adam pushes up off the sofa and stops her before she gets more than a few steps away.

“Wait...give me your phone number. I mean, if you want. I thought you might want to know how he's doing. After all...you've known him a lot longer than I have,” Adam says.

After a moment, Julia smiles and nods, and they exchange the information, make promises to stay in touch. Then she takes her leave, and Adam takes one more moment for himself, just letting himself _feel_ the relief.

He gets off the phone with Becky five minutes later, sharing that feeling, glad to be able to set her mind at ease, and in return, she settles his worries about Mrs. Martin. “She's been perfectly content to ignore him for ten years,” Becky says bitterly. “I don't see why she should change that now.”

When he finally gets upstairs, he sits on the edge of Tommy's bed and strokes his fingers through his hair, whispering to his sleeping form.

“He can never hurt you again, Tommy, I promise. You're safe now. You're with me.”

*

Adam wakes up sometime that night to find Tommy sitting up on the bed, staring at him, watching him sleep.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes and meets Tommy's gaze head-on.

“Hi,” Adam says.

Tommy bites his lip, an oh-so-familiar gesture that cuts right to Adam's heart. “Um...hi. Where am I?” he asks, and Adam doesn't quite recognize this Tommy, can't classify where his head is right now. It's disorienting.

“This is my house. You're safe here,” Adam says.

Tommy runs his hands over the fluffy comforter covering him. “Yeah...” he says, trailing off. Then he glances up at Adam again. “You came back.”

Adam nods. “Yeah. I came back. Of course I came back. I couldn't...”

“What are you going to do with me?” Tommy asks, and his eyes are big and wide and dark, and Adam can't stop himself, goes to kneel by the side of the bed and takes Tommy's hand between his own.

“I'd like...only if you want to...you'd be welcome to stay with me. It's no trouble, really.” The words Adam wants to say are lodged in his throat, and instead what comes out is safe, quiet.

Tommy seems to understand anyway. He thinks a moment. “Would you sing to me?” he asks, finally.

Adam's heart melts. “Every day, Tommy. Anytime you want. ”

And Tommy blushes and grants him a smile, shy and tiny and beautiful. There's a long road ahead of them, Adam knows. And honestly? He can't wait to walk it.


End file.
